.'I  .  '. 


^iiiji 

i 

III 

!l 

i 

■  >  -  -■'." 

1  ijii 

i   iUi 

L 

'^TONE 


DlffMiHinnit!!! 

Hi:  ■■,     ■     '^ 


fM 


w 


1 

iffllnP, 

^^^^^^^^HHHHHHHHHHHH|h  t 

. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H ' 

;  ,    .        ,'■'-;-    -1 .    '  '  ■    , ■ 

i,                 ^.^ 

1 

,:ii-nmL^iiM,iiiiMi\iiiiv:^ii 


/4rh-fv(^M    CjeUel/^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/downyellowstoneOOfreerich 


DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

TO  KIEL  IN  THE  * 'HERCULES'* 

SEA-HOUNDS 

IN  THE  TRACKS  OF  THE  TRADES 

HELL'S  HATCHES 

DOWN  THE  COLUMBIA 


©  /.  E.  Haynes,  St.  Paul 


THE  YELLOWSTONE 


s*    j»    r*   »    /    #   '«•         •  '    f* 


DOWN  THE 
YELLOWSTONE 


BY 

LEWIS  R.  FREEMAN 

Author  of  "In  the  Tracks  of  the  Trades,"  "Down  the 
Columbia,'*  etc.,  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPTKIGHT,  1922, 

By  DODD,  mead  AND  COMPANY,  Ino. 

PBINTED  IN  U.   S.  A. 


hf-i^-UUj    HrKiAAiA 


t.  *  *  *  ^  * 


r.  •..: 


VAIL.BAUOU    COMPANY 

aiNBHAMTON  AND  NIW  YORK 


To 

**MY  FRIENDS  ALONG  THE  YELLOWSTONE, 

WHO  HAVE  KEPT  ALIVE  ALL  THAT  IS  BEST 

IN  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  OLD  WEST'* 


500380 


INTRODUCTION 

It  must  have  been  close  to  twenty  years  ago  that 
I  first  started  to  boat  from  the  head  of  the  Yellow- 
stone to*the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  On  that  occasion  I 
covered  something  over  a  hundred  miles  from  the 
source  of  the  Yellowstone — a  good  part  of  it  on  the 
ice,  on  the  bank,  or  floundering  in  the  water.  As 
a  start  it  was  not  auspicious,  nor  was  it  destined 
to  be  anything  more  than  a  start. 

Shrouded  in  the  mists  of  comparative  antiquity, 
the  reason  for  my  embarking  on  this  voyage  is  only 
less  obscure  than  my  reason  for  failing  to  continue 
it.  As  nearly  as  I  can  figure  it  today,  it  was  a  se- 
ries of  tennis  tournaments  in  Washington  and  British 
Columbia  that  lured  me  to  the  North-west  in  the  first 
place.  Then  a  hunting  trip  in  eastern  Washington 
merged  into  an  enchanting  interval  of  semi-vagabon- 
dage through  the  silver-lead  mining  camps  of  the 
Coeur  d'Alene  and  the  copper  camps  of  Montana, 
at  that  time  in  the  hey-day  of  their  glory. 

From  Butte  to  the  Yellowstone  was  only  a  step. 
That  it  was  still  winter  at  those  altitudes,  and  that  the 
Park,  under  from  ten  to  forty  feet  r)f  snow,  would 
not  be  opened  to  tourists  for  another  two  months, 


INTRODUCTION 

were  only  negligible  incidentals.  That  deep  snow, 
far  from  being  a  hindrance,  actually  facilitated  travel 
over  a  rough  country,  I  had  learned  the  previous 
year  in  Alaska. 

I  should  have  known  better  than  to  expect  that 
permission  would  be  granted  me  to  make  a  tour  of 
the  Park  out  of  season,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
doubtless  would  not  have  been  had  I  proceeded  by 
the  proper  official  channels  via  Washington.  Know- 
ing nothing  of  eithei*  propriety  or  officialdom  at  my 
then  immature  age  (would  that  I  could  say  the  same 
today!),  I  simply  journeyed  jauntily  up  to  Fort 
Yellowstone  and  told  the  U.  S.  Army  officer  in  com- 
mand that  I  was  a  writer  on  game  protection,  and 
that  I  wanted  the  loan  of  a  pair  of  ski  in  order  to 
fare  forth  and  study  the  subject  at  first  hand.  When 
he  asked  me  if  I  knew  how  to  use  ski,  adding  that  he 
could  not  let  me  proceed  if  I  did  not,  I  replied  that 
I  did. 

Now  eachi  of  these  confident  assertions  was  made 
with  a  mental  reservation.  I  was  really  only  a  po- 
tential writer  on  game  protection,  just  ns  I  was  only 
a  potential  ski-runnei'.  I  knew  that  I  could  write 
something  about  game  protection,  just  as  surely  as 
I  knew  I  could  do  something  with  the  ski.  As  to 
just  what  I  should  write  about  game  protection  I 
was  in  some  d*oubt,  never  having  written  about  any- 


INTRODUCTION 

thing  at  all  up  to  that  time.  Similarly,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  ski,  never  having  seen  a  ski  before.  But 
I  knew  I  could  use  them,  for  something,  and  hoped 
it  would  be  as  aids  to  linear  progression  over  snow. 

Thanks  to  some  previous  experience  with  web 
snowshoes,  I  came  through  fairly  well  with  the  ski, 
but  at  the  cost  of  many  bumps  and  bruises  and 
strained  muscles.  What  it  cost  me  to  make  good  that 
game  protection  scribe  boast  would  require  some 
figuring.  I  recall  that  there  was  one  old  shark  of 
an  editor  of  a  yellow-covered  outdoor  magazine  in 
New  York  who  quoted  me  advertising  rates  for  the 
article  I  submitted  him,  but  I  believe  we  compro- 
mised by  my  taking  twenty  paid-in-advance  subscrip- 
tions. Another  editor  sent  me  a  bill  for  the  cost  of 
the  cuts,  and  offered  to  include  my  own  photograph 
— in  evening  clothes  if  desired — for  five  dollars  extra. 
I  still  have  several  game  protection  articles  on  hand. 

It  must  have  been  sometime  previous  to  the  two 
or  three  weeks  that  I  spent  mushing  about  the  val- 
leys of  the  upper  Yellowstone  on  the  ice  and  snow  that 
the  idea  came  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  nice  thing  to 
float  down  on  the  spring  rise  to  the  Missouri,  the  Mis- 
sissippi and  the  Gulf.  In  any  event,  I  knew  that 
the  thought  came  to  me  before  arriving  at  the  Park. 
I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  pre-empting  for  my 
own  use  a  big  iron  staple  which  some  soldier  had 


INTRODUCTION 

put  in  the  mineral-charged  water  of  Mammoth  Hot 
Springs  to  acquire  a  frosty  coating.  I  purposed 
driving  it  into  the  bow  of  my  boat  to  bend  the  painter 
to. 

The  boat  I  secured  about  ten  miles  down  river 
from  the  Park  boundary.  The  famous  "Yankee 
Jim"  gave  it  to  me.  This  may  sound  generous  on 
Jim's  part,  but  seeing  the  boat  didn't  belong  to  him  it 
wasn't  especially  so.  Nor  was  the  craft  really  a  boat, 
either.  It  had  been  built  by  a  coal  miner  from  Al- 
dridge,  with  the  intention  of  using  it  to  float  down  the 
Yellowstone,  Missouri  and  Mississippi  to  his  child- 
hood home  in  Hickman,  Kentucky.  It  had  done 
such  strange  things  in  the  comparatively  quiet  ten- 
mile  stretch  below  Gardiner  that  the  miner 
abandoned  it  a  good  safe  distance  above  "Yankee 
Jim's"  Canyon,  went  brack  to  Cinnabar  and  bought 
a  ticket  to  Hickman  by  rail.  I  knocked  the  top-heavy 
house  off  the  queer  contraption,  and  in,  under  and 
round  about  the  shell-hke  residue  bumped  and  bat- 
tered my  way  through  the  Canyon,  and  about  twenty 
miles  beyond.  The  last  five  miles  were  made  astride 
of  the  only  three  remaining  planks.  I  walked 
the  ties  the  intervening  fifteen  miles  to  Living- 
ston. 

It  was  undoubtedly  my  intention  to  build  a  real 
boat  in  Livingston  and  proceed  on  my  voyage  before 


INTRODUCTION 

the  spring  rise  went  down.  Just  why  I  came  to  fal- 
ter in  my  enterprise  I  can't  quite  remember,  but  I  am 
ahnost  certain  it  was  because  the  local  semi-pro 
baseball  team  of  the  Montana  League  needed  a  first 
baseman  the  same  day  that  the  editor  of  the  local 
paper  was  sent  to  the  Keeley  Institute  with  delirium 
tremens.  Never  having  been  an  editor  before,  there 
was  a  glamour  about  the  name  that  I  must  confess 
hardly  surrounds  it  in  my  mind  today.  I  can  see 
now,  therefore,  how  I  came  to  fall  when  a  somewhat 
mixed  delegation  waited  upon  me  with  the  proposal 
that  I  edit  the  Enterprise  five  days  of  the  week  and 
play  ball  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  I  would  fall  for 
the  same  thing  again  today,  that  is,  without  the 
editor  stuff.  At  any  rate,  summer  and  the  tide  of 
the  Yellowstone  waxed  and  began  to  wane  without 
my  boating  farther  seaward  than  the  timberless 
bluffs  of  Big  Timber,  to  where,  with  a  couple  of  com- 
panions, I  went  slap-banging  in  a  skiff  one  Sunday 
morning  when  the  team  was  scheduled  for  a  game 
there  in  the  afternoon. 

Finally,  it  seems  to  me,  it  was  tennis  and  some 
challenge  mugs  that  had  to  be  defended  that  took 
me  back  to  Washington,  and  so  to  California.  I  was 
destined  to  form  more  oi*  less  intimate  boating  ac- 
quaintance with  practically  every  one  of  the  great 
rivers  of  South  America,  Asia,  and  Africa  before  re- 


INTRODUCTION 

turning  to  resume  my  interrupted  voyage  down  the 
Yellowstone. 

•  •••••• 

There  were  several  moving  considerations  opera- 
tive in  bringing  about  my  decision  to  attempt  a  Yel- 
lowstone-Missouri-Mississippi voyage  last  summer. 
Not  the  least  of  these,  doubtless,  was  the  desire  to 
complete  the  unfinished  business  of  the  original  ven- 
ture. A  more  immediate  inspiration,  however,  was 
traceable  to  a  voyage  I  had  made  down  the  Colum- 
bia the  previous  autumn.  Second  only  to  the  scenic 
grandeur  and  the  highly  diverting  sport  of  running 
the  rapids  of  this  incomparable  stream,  was  the  dis- 
covery that  the  supposedly  long-quenched  flame  of 
frontier  kindliness  and  hospitality  still  flickered  in 
the  West,  that  there  were  still  a  few  folk  in  exist- 
ence to  whom  the  wayfarer  was  neither  a  bird  to  be 
plucked  nor  a  lemon  to  be  squeezed.  It  wasn't  quite 
a  turning  of  the  calendar  back  to  frontier  day^,  but 
rather,  perhaps,  to  about  those  not  unhappy  pre-war 
times  before  the  yellow  serum  of  profiteering  was  in- 
jected into  the  red  blood  of  so  many  Americans. 
Living  well  off  the  main  arteries  of  travel,  these  river 
folk  seemed  to  have  escaped  the  corroding  infection 
almost  to  a  man,  and  it  was  a  mightily  reassuring  ex- 
perience to  meet  them,  if  no  more  than  to  shake  hands 


INTRODUCTION 

and  exchange  greetings  in  passing.  So  few  will  have 
had  the  experience  of  late,  that  I  quite  despair  of  be- 
ing understood  when  I  speak  of  the  good  it  does  one 
to  encounter  a  fellow  being  whom  one  knows  wants 
and  expects  no  more  than  is  coming  to  him.  Meet- 
ing a  number  of  such  was  like  going  into  a  new  world. 

I  fold  myself  frankly  that  I  could  do  with  a  lot 
more  people  of  that  kind,  and  perhaps  come  out 
rather  less  of  an  undesirable  myself  as  a  consequence 
of  the  contact.  If  I  found  them  all  along  the  Colum- 
bia, why  not  along  the  Yellowstone,  and  perhaps  the 
Missouri  and  the  Mississippi?  And  what  wouldn't 
four  or  five  months'  association  with  such  do  in  the 
way  of  eradicating  incipient  Bolshevism?  And  so  I 
planned,  embarked  upon,  and  finally  completed  the 
journey  from  the  snows  of  the  Continental  Divide 
where  the  Yellowstone  takes  its  rise,  to  New  Orleans 
where  the  Mississippi  meets  the  tide  of  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico.  I  trust  the  dedication  to  this  rambling  vol' 
ume  of  reminiscence  may  give  some  hint  of  the  extent 
to  which  my  hopes  for  the  voyage  were  justified. 

To  maintain  perspective,  I  am  beginning  my  story 
by  sketching  in  a  few  high  lights  from  my  earlier 
jaunt  to  the  sources  of  the  Yellowstone.  I  saw 
things  then  that  few  have  had  the  opportunity  to  see 
since,  just  as  I  embarked  light somely  on  several  little 


INTRODUCTION 

enterprises  that  I  have  neither  the  nerve  nor  the  wind 
to  attempt  today.  Also,  I  had  fairly  intimate 
glimpses  in  the  course  of  that  delectable  interval  of 
vagabondage  of  several  notable  frontier  characters 
whom  no  present-day  wanderer  by  the.  ways  of  the 
Yellowstone  can  ever  hope  to  meet.  The  priceless 
"Yankee  Jim"  was  inextricably  -mixed  up  with  my 
rattle-headed  attempt  to  flounder  through  the  canyon 
to  which  he  had  given  his  name.  He  really  belongs 
in  the  picture.  "Calamity  Jane"  is  more  of  an  ex- 
otic (to  shift  my  metaphorio  gear),  so  that  the  chap- 
ter I  have  devoted  to  the  most  temperamental  lady 
of  a  tempestuous  epoch  will  have  to  be  its  own  justi- 
fication. 

Frequent  historical  allusions  will  be  found  in  the 
pages  of  the  narrative  of  my  later  down-river  voyage. 
I  am  sorry  about  this,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped.  His- 
tory-makers have  boated  upon,  and  camped  by,  the 
Missouri  for  a  hundred  years,  just  as  the  Mississippi 
has  known  them  for  thrice  a  hundred.  Most  of 
the  things  that  path-finders  leave  behind  them  lare 
imponderable.  In  the  thousands  of  miles  between  the 
mouth  of  the  Missouri  and  the  mouth  of  the  Colum- 
bia a  few  practically  obliteracted  scratches  on  a  rock 
in  Montana  are  all  that  one  can  point  to  as  left  by  the 
Lewis  and  Clark  expedition;  yet  memories  of  those 
two  lurk  in  the  shadows  of  every  cliff,  spring  to  meet 


INTRODUCTION 

one  across  the  sandy  bars  of  every  muddy  tributary. 
And  so  with  all  who  came  after  them,  from  Hunt  and 
his  trapper  contemporaries  on  down  to  Custer,  "Buf- 
falo Bill"  and  Sitting  Bull.  And  so  on  the  Missis- 
sippi, from  Marquette  and  La  Salle  to  Grant  and 
Mark  Twain.  You  can't  ignore  them,  try  as  you 
will ;  that  is,  if  you're  going  to  write  at  all  about  your 
voyagings.  I've  done  the  best  I  could  on  that  score. 
For  the  rest,  I  have  written  freely  of  rivers  and 
mountains,  of  adventure -and  misadventure,  and  some- 
what of  cities  and  towns;  much  of  men  and  little  of 
institutions.  In  short,  I  seem  to  have  picked  on  about 
the  same  things  that  a  commuter  on  his  summer  vaca- 
tion would  choose  to  write  of  to  a  fellow-commuter 
who  has  staid  at  home.  I  only  hope  that  my  view- 
point has  been  half  as  fresh. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Yellowstone Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

Elk  in  gathering  storm,  Jackson's  Hole 14 

Elk  stalled  in  snow 18 

As  we  pulled  up  close  behind  him 18 

The  Falls  in  winter  from  Point  Lookout 30 

The  Giant  is  the  biggest  geyser  in  North  America  .      .      .38 

"Yankee  Jim's"  cabin 56 

"Yankee  Jim"  with  a  trout  from  his  canyon 68 

Just  above  the  first  drop  in  "Yankee  Jim's"  Canyon  .      .  68 

Foot  of  "Yankee  Jim's"  Canyon 72 

"Calamity  Jane"  in  1885 80 

I  found  "Calamity"  smoking  a  cigar  and  cooking  breakfast  80 

Golden  Gate  Canyon  and  Viaduct 104 

Emigrant  Peak,  Yellowstone  River,  near  Livingston,  Mont.  108 

Tower   Fall   and   Towers 110 

Yellowstone  Park  Headquarters 116 

Director  Mather,  Secretary  of  the  Interior  Fall,  and  Super- 
intendent Albright  camping 116 

Superintendent  Albright  and  Mule  Deer 116 

Gate  of  the  Mountains,  Yellowstone  River 122 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FAOINa     PAGE 

Where  Custer  fell 126 

The  blacksmith  shop  where  my  boat  was  set  up  .      ,      .      .142 

We  launched  the  boat  below  the  Livingston  bridge     .      .142 

A  difficult  riffle  below  Springdale 142 

Pete  Holt  and  Joe  Evans 150 

Hauled  out  at  the  foot  of  a  rough  rapid 150 

A  sharp  pitch  on  the  upper  Yellowstone 150 

Joe  Evans  who  piloted  me  the  first  half  day 156 

Pete  Holt  and  Joe  Evans  with  their  inflated  life  preservers  156 

"Chickens,  children  and  hogs" 156 

Round-up  outfit  at  dinner 172 

A  savage  riffle  near  the  site  of  Captain  Clark's  boat  camp  176 

Sunrise  on  a  quiet  reach  of  the  lower  Yellowstone  .      .      .176 

The  Yellowstone  below  the  outlet  of  the  Lake  .      .      .      .180 

Rough  water  and  a  bad  bend 180 

Herd,  Powder  River  Valley ,   202 

Sheep  by  the  water,  Big  Powder  River 202 

The  County  bridge  over  the  Yellowstone 206 

Pompey's  Pillar ^     ,      ,      ,   212 

The  Yellowstone  from  the  top  of  Pompey's  Pillar  .      .      .212 

Custer's  Pillar,  Bad  Lands .216 

The  grating  which  protects  the  initials  carved  by  Captain 

Clark  on  the  side  of  Pompey's  Pillar   .      .      ..      .      .216 

Stockyards,  Miles  City  .      .      .      . 224 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

TAOINa   PAGK 

"Freightin'  ".....•-...-...  224 
One  of  the  famous  school  bands  of  Glendive       .     •     *     .240 

Buffalo  stampede    * *      .      .   242 

The  dam  across  the  Yellowstone  at  Intake  .     •      •     •     .  246 

Portaging  my  boat  round  the  Intake  Dam 246 

Completing  the  portage 246 

The  "Old-N"  crossing  the  Powder  River  ......   254 

The  Yellowstone  just  above  Livingston  .*...*  270 
The  Yellowstone  just  after  receiving  the  Big  Horn  .  .  .  270 
The  broad  stream  of  the  Yellowstone  below  Glendive  .      .   280 

The  last  bridge  above  the  Missouri 280 

Where  the  Yellowstone  takes  possession  of  the  Missouri   .   280 


PART  I 
TWENTY  YEARS  BEFORE 


DOWN  THE 
YELLOWSTONE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  YELLOWSTONE   IN   WINTER 

The  present-day  Indian  inhabitants  of  the  Yellow- 
stone and  Big  Horn  valleys,  whose  ancestors  hunted 
bear,  buffalo  and  elk  in  the  Devil's  Land  now  known 
as  Yellowstone  Park,  preserve  a  legend  to  the  effect 
that  when  the  world  was  made,  because  this  region 
was  the  most  desirable  section  of  Creation,  Mog  the 
God  of  Fire,  and  Lob  the  God  of  rains  and  snows, 
contended  for  the  control  of  it.  After  some  prelimin- 
ary sku-mishing,  the  disputants  carried  the  matter  to 
the  court  of  the  Great  Spirit  for  settlement.  Here 
the  ruling  was  that  Mog  should  occupy  the  land  for 
six  moons,  when  Lob  should  follow  with  possession 
for  a  similar  interval,  thus  dividing  the  year  equally 
between  them. 

But  Mog,  being  a  bad  god  as  well  as  a  tricky  one, 
spent  his  first  six  moons  in  connecting  the  valleys  with 
hell  by  a  thousand  passages,  and  thus  bringing  up  fire 
and  sulphur  and  boiling  water  wherever  it  suited  his 


2  DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

fiendish  fancy.  Then  he  threw  dust  on  all  of  the 
beautiful  colored  mountains,  dried  up  the  grass  and 
shook  the  leaves  from  the  trees,  so  that  when  it  came 
to  his  rival's  turn  to  take  charge,  Lob  found  affairs  in 
a  very  sad  way  indeed. 

But  Lob  set  himself  to  work,  like  the  good  god  that 
he  was,  and  dusted  and  furbished  up  the  mountains, 
watered  the  grass  and  trees,  and  heaped  the  snow  in 
mighty  drifts  on  geyser  and  hot  spring  in  an  effort 
to  stop  their  mouths  and  force  their  boiling  waters 
back  from  whence  they  came.  But  the  latter  task 
was  too  much  for  him.  When  the  end  of  his  allotted 
time  came,  though  the  grass  was  springing  green  and 
fr^sh  and  the  trees  were  bursting  into  leaf  again,  the 
geysers  and  hot  springs  spouted  merrily  on.  All  the 
incoming  Mog  had  to  do  was  to  kick  up  a  few  clouds 
of  dust  and  turn  the  sun  loose  on  the  grass  and  trees 
to  have  the  place  just  as  he  had  left  it. 

And  so  for  some  thousands  of  alternating  tenancies 
the  fight  has  gone  on,  all  the  best  of  it  with  the  bad 
god.  Although  Lob  is  gaining  somewhat  year  by 
year,  and  has  already  dried  many  a  spouting  geyser 
and  bubbling  hot  spring  and  reduced  countless  pots 
of  boiling  sulphur  to  beds  of  yellow  ciystals,  he  still 
has  many  a  moon  to  work  before  he  can  force  hell  to 
receive  its  own  and  leave  him  free  to  complete  his 
mighty  task  of  reclamation. 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  IN  WINTER      3 

In  strong  support  of  this  legend  is  the  fact  that  at 
the  time  of  year  when  the  Indians  say  that  Lob  is 
compelled  to  abdicate,  and  before  Mog  begins  his  an- 
nual dust-throwing — the  middle  of  April  or  there- 
abouts,— the  Yellowstone  Park  is  incomparably  more 
beautiful  than  at  any  other  season.  And  moreover, 
there  are  those  who  maintain  that  even  at  other  sea- 
sons it  is  still  more  beautiful  than  any  other  place  in 
the  world,  just  as  it  was  in  the  beginning  when  it 
aroused  the  jealousies  of  the  rival  gods  and  precipi- 
tated their  eternal  conflict. 

What  the  Yellowstone  is  in  the  early  spring  only 
those  who  have  seen  it  at  that  season  cfan  reahze,  and 
only  those  who  have  made  the  summer  tour  are  in  a 
position  to  imagine.  Let  one  who  has  breasted  the 
sweltering  heat-waves-  that  radiate  from  Obsidian 
Cliff  in  July,  trying  to  picture  the  impressive  beauty 
of  that  massive  pile  of  volcanic  glass  through  the 
translucent  dust-clouds  raised  by  the  passage  of  two 
or  three  score  cars — let  him  fancy  that  cliff,  its  sum- 
mit crowned  with  a  feathered  crest  of  snow,  huge 
drifts  at  its  base,  and  its  whole  face,  washed  and 
polished  by  the  elements,  glittering  as  though  pan- 
elled with  shining  ebony.  Let  him  think  of  the  time 
his  car  was  halted  on  the  Continental  Divide  and 
the  driver  endeavoured  to  point  out  one  of  the  dis- 
tant eminences,  guessed  dimly  through  the  smoke- 


4  DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

clouds  rising  beyond  Shoshone  Lake,  as  the  Grand 
Teton,  and  then  fancy  himself  standing  at  the  same 
point  and  looking  out  across  the  valley  through  air 
that,  windowed  and  cleansed  by  the  winds  and  snows 
of  the  winter,  is  so  clear  that  the  bottle-green  in 
the  rims  of  the  glaciers  is  discernible  at  forty  miles. 
Let  him  who  has  admired  the  transcendent  beauty  of 
the  steam-clouds  swirling  above  Old  Faithful  in  the 
summer  imagine  these  clouds  increased  two-fold  in 
whiteness  and  density,  and  ten-fold  in  volume,  by 
the  quicker  condensation  of  a  zero  morning.  Let 
him  picture  the  black  gorge  of  the  Fire  Hole  Canyon, 
where  the  river  plunges  down  to  the  Upper  Geyser 
Basin,  forming  Kepplar  Cascade,  transformed  to  a 
shining  fairyland  of  sparkling  crystal  and  silver,  ev- 
erything in  range  of  the  flying  spray  spangled  and 
plated  and  jewelled  by  the  ice  and  frost,  as  though 
a  whole  summer  day's  sunshine  had  been  shaken  up 
with  a  winter  night's  snowfall,  and  then  fashioned  by 
an  army  of  elfin  workmen  into  a  marvellous  million- 
pieced  fretwork,  adorned  with  traceries  ethereal  and 
delicate,  and  of  a  fragile  loveliness  beyond  words  to 
describe. 

All  these  things,  and  many  more,  the  summer  tour- 
ist will  have  to  picture  in  coming  near  to  a  concep- 
tion of  what  the  wizardry  of  winter  has  effected. 
There  is  the  novelty  of  seeing  a  rim  of  ice  around 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  IN  WINTER       5 

the  Devil's  Frying  Pan,  and  the  great  hole  that  the 
up -shooting  gush  of  a  geyser  tears  in  a  cloud  of  driven 
snow.  There  is  the  massive  beauty  of  the  ice 
bulwark  upon  Virginia  Cascade,  and  then,  in  win- 
ter as  in  summer  the  scenic  climax,  the  lower  falls 
and  the  Grand  Canyon. 

And  nowhere  more  than  in  the  incomparable  Can- 
yon is  the  general  effect  heightened  by  the  presence 
of  the  ice  and  the  snow  and  the  clean-washed  air. 
The  very  existence  of  the  brilliant  streaks  and  patches 
of  yellow  and  umber  and  a  dozen  shades  of  red  de- 
pends upon  the  water  from  the  rain  and  melting  snow 
dissolving  the  colouring  matters  from  the  rocks  of  the 
upper  levels  and  depositing  them  upon  the  canyon 
walls  as  it  trickles  down  to  the  river.  Clear  and  sharp 
in  the  early  springtime,  the  bright  pigments  are 
bleached  and  blended  by  the  sun  and  winds  of  the 
summer  until,  by  the  time  the  fall  storms  set  in,  the 
contrast  between  streak  and  streak  is  far  less  marked 
than  when,  chrysalis  like,  they  first  burst  from  their 
snow  cocoons  of  winter. 

It  is  in  the  spring,  when  the  blaze  of  the  great  col- 
our-drenched diorama  is  set  off  by  patches  of  dazzling 
snow,  when  every  vagrant  sunbeam  glancing  from 
the  canyon  side  is  caught  and  refracted  in  the  mazes 
of  glittering  icicles  that  fringe  every  jutting  cornice 
and  battlement  till  it  reaches  the  eyes  of  the  beholder 


6  DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

like  a  flash  from  a  thousand-hued  star;  when  the  sHde 
from  the  mountainside  forms  a  snow  dam  in  the  river, 
and  the  angry  torrent,  leaping  like  a  lion  at  the  bars 
of  its  cage,  brushes  away  the  obstruction  and  rages 
onward  in  renewed  fury  to  the  valley ;  when  the  great 
mouth  under  the  snow-cap  at  the  top  of  the  falls  is 
tearing  itself  wider  day  by  day  in  its  frantic  efforts 
to  disgorge  the  swollen  stream  that  comes  surging 
down  from  the  over-flowing  lake — it  is  at  this  time, 
when  Nature  has  whipped  on  her  mightiest  forces  to 
the  extreme  limit  of  their  powers  in  a  grandstand  fin- 
ish to  her  spring  house-cleaning,  that  the  Grand  Can- 
yon of  the  Yellowstone  has  a  beauty  and  a  depth  of 
appeal  beyond  all  other  seasons. 

From  the  time  that  I  first  conceived  the  idea  of  an 
early  springtime  trip  through  the  Yellowstone  Park 
the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  carrying  out  such  a  plan, 
like  rolled  snowballs,  seemed  to  grow  as  my  inquiries 
progressed.  Every  objection  was  urged,  from  the 
possibility  of  snow-blindness  to  the  certainty  of  death 
from  cold,  snow-slides,  or  wild  animals,  from  the 
probability  of  opposition  from  the  Fort  to  the  improb- 
ability of  securing  provisions  en  route.  Old  "Yankee 
Jim"  even  told  me  that  the  spirits  of  the  hot  springs 
and  geysers,  while  peaceable  enough  in  the  mild  days 
of  summer,  were  not  to  be  trusted  after  they  had 
been  "riled  and  fruz"  by  the  winds  and  snows  of  win- 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  IN  WINTER       7 

ter.  That  was  about  the  last  straw.  I  felt  that  I 
was  literally  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  snow. 

But  when  I  reached  Fort  Yellowstone,  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  Park,  I  learned  that  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  road  followed  on 
the  summer  tour  were  patrolled  by  soldiers,  and  that 
the  scouts  made  a  complete  round  several  times  dur- 
ing the  winter.  The  officer  in  command  received  me 
most  kindly.  He  had  no  objection  at  all  to  my  go- 
ing out  with  the  scouts  or  the  soldiers  on  game  patrol. 
If  I  would  satisfy  him  that  I  could  conduct  myself 
properly  on  ski  he  would  see  that  all  necessary  equip- 
ment and  facilities  were  provided  me  for  the  winter 
tour. 

I  learned  later  that  the  sergeant  who  was  detailed 
to  test  me  out  had  boasted  that  he  intended  to  break 
me  of  my  fool  notion  if  he  had  to  break  my  fool 
neck.  From  the  way  he  started,  I  am  acutally  in- 
cKned  to  believe  he  meant  it.  He  led  me  on  foot  up 
the  road  to  Golden  Gate,  circled  round  to  the  west, 
ordered  me  to  put  on  my  ski,  and  then  started  down 
through  the  timber  toward  the  terraces  of  Mammoth 
Hot  Springs.  I,  of  course,  fell  at  the  end  of  ten 
feet.  Having  little  way  on,  my  worst  difficulty  was 
getting  my  head  out  from  under  the  toe  of  my  left 
ski  the  while  that  same  toe  was  held  down  by  the  rear 
end  of  my  right  ski.     It  was  just  the  usual  ski  be- 


8  DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ginner's  mix-up.  My  instructor,  however,  had  de- 
scended about  five  hundred  feet  right  side  up  when  a 
loop  of  willow  caught  the  toe  of  one  of  his  ski  and 
sent  him  spinning  the  next  Bye  hundred  end  over 
end.  It  was  only  by  the  greatest  of  good  luck  that 
he  kissed  lightly  off  five  or  six  trees  in  passing  instead 
of  colliding  with  one  head-on.  Even  as  it  was  they 
had  to  send  a  sled  up  from  the  fort  to  bring  down  his 
much-abused  anatomy.  The  remainder  of  my  ski  no- 
vitiate, thank  heaven,  was  served  under  the  skilful 
and  considerate  tutelage  of  Peter  Holt,  the  scout. 
Thanks  to  my  Alaska  snow-shoe  work  and  the  fact 
that  I  was  hard  as  nails  physically,  I  was  pronounced 
ready  to  take  the  road  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  days. 
It  was  intensive  training,  and  accompanied  by  many 
bumps  and  thrills.  I  shall  probably  always  be  in 
Holt's  debt  for  the  bumps.  Most  of  the  thrills  I 
paid  back  last  June  when,  finding  him  the  Chief  of 
Police  of  Livingston,  I  took  him  along  as  passenger 
for  the  first  fifty  miles  of  my  run  down  the  Yellow- 
stone. 

The  morning  after  I  was  adjudged  sufficiently  ski- 
broke  to  attempt  the  winter  tour  of  the  Park  with  a 
fair  chance  of  finishing  I  was  attached  to  a  party 
of  troopers  detailed  to  pack  in  bacon  to  the  station 
at  Norris  Basin.  The  memories  of  the  doings  of  the 
delectable  weeks  that  followed,  which  I  spent  with 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  IN  WINTER       9 

bear  and  elk  and  spouting  geysers  and  bubbling  mud 
springs  as  my  daily  play-fellows,  are  still  tinged  with 
rose  at  the  end  of  a  score  of  years.  I  am  appending 
here — in  the  form  of  verbatim  extracts  from  my  re- 
ligiously kept  diary — some  account  of  a  few  of  the 
more  amusing  episodes.  The  wording  follows  hard 
upon  the  original;  the  spelling,  I  regret  to  say,  I 
have  just  had  to  go  over  with  a  dictionary  and  de- 
phonetize.  If  the  view-point  is  a  bit  naive  in  spots, 
please  remember  that  you  are  reading  the  babblings 
of  a  very  moony  and  immature  youth,  more  or  less 
tipsy  with  his  first  draughts  of  life,  who  had  just  dis- 
covered that  he  was  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  world 
full  of  innumerable  things  and  imagining  that  they 
were  aU  put  there  for  his  own  special  entertainment. 


CHAPTER  II 

SKI  SNAPS 

Lake  Station,  April  13. 

Corporal  Hope  and  I  set  out  this  morn- 
ing from  the  Patrol  Station,  going  after  elk 
and  buffalo  pictures.  Heading  in  the  direction 
of  Hayden  Valley,  we  encountered  two  buffalo 
cows  and  their  calves  crossing  a  half -bare  opening  in 
the  trees  near  the  Mud  Geyser.  We  had  little  diffi- 
culty in  heading  them  as  they  tried  to  break  away  and 
driving  them  off  on  a  course  that  offered  me  a  favour- 
able exposure.  The  calves  were  a  month  or  more 
old,  but  tottered  on  their  thin  legs  and  seemed  very 
weak,  the  consequence,  no  doubt,  of  continued  in- 
breeding. The  rapidly  thinning  herd  is  badly  in 
need  of  an  infusion  of  new  blood. 

We  came  upon  the  main  herd  farther  down  the 
valley,  making  some  long-distance  snap-shots  on  va- 
rious individuals  and  sections  of  it  as  they  went  lung- 
ing off  through  the  drifts  at  our  approach.  It  was 
old  "Tuskegee,"  reputed  to  be  the  largest  specimen  of 
the  Bison  Americanus  in  existence,  whose  picture  I 
most  cared  for.  The  old  fellow  is  estimated  to  weigh 
over  3000  pounds,  is  covered  with  a  net-work  of  scars 

10 


SKI  SNAPS  11 

from  his  lifetime  of  fighting,  and  has  only  one  eye 
and  the  remnant  of  a  tail  left.  He  has  been  seen 
to  give  battle  to  three  pugnacious  bull  elk  at 
once,  and  has  killed  numbers  of  them  in  single  com- 
bat. 

It  was  but  a  few  summers  ago  that  old  "Tuskegee" 
left  the  herd,  charged  a  coach  full  of  tourists,  goring 
one  of  the  horses  so  badly  that  it  had  to  be  shot.  The 
big  vehicle  was  nearly  overturned  by  the  plunging 
horses,  while  its  occupants — a  party  of  New  England 
school-teachers — ^were  driven  into  frenzies  of  terror. 
Neither  the  bullets  from  a  nickel-plated  revolver  in 
the  hands  of  one  of  the  schoolmarms,  nor  the  long 
stinging  whip  of  the  driver,  nor  even  his  equally  long 
and  stinging  oaths,  affected  "Tuskegee"  in  the  least. 
He  continued  butting  about  among  the  frightened 
horses  as  though  the  wrecking  of  a  six-in-hand  coach 
was  a  regular  part  of  his  daily  routine.  At  last,  how- 
ever, the  sustained  hysteria  of  the  females  seemed  to 
get  upon  the  old  fellow's  nerves.  Wheeling  about, 
he  turned  the  stub  of  his  tail  to  the  swooning  tourists 
and  galloped,  bellowing,  over  the  hill. 

An  order  was  at  once  issued  that  "Tuskegee"  should 
be  shot  on  sight,  and  for  a  month  a  special  detail  from 
the  Fort  scoured  the  hills  and  valleys  in  search  of 
the  renegade.  But  all  to  no  purpose.  The  old 
warrior,  as  though  understanding  that  he  was  per- 


12         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

sona  non  grata  with  the  authorities,  retreated  into  the 
impenetrable  fastnesses  of  the  mountain  spurs  above 
Thorofare  Plateau,  and  nothing  was  seen  or  heard 
of  him  for  many  months. 

For  two  years  there  was  an  interregnum  in  buf- 
falodom,  during  which  the  big  herd  gradually 
dropped  to  pieces  and  wandered  about  in  leaderless 
fragments.  Then,  one  day,  a  big  bull  elk  was  found, 
crushed  and  torn,  trampled  into  the  mud  of  Violet 
Springs,  and  the  scouts  told  each  other  that  the  King 
had  returned.  A  few  days  later  a  soldier  of  the 
game  patrol,  on  a  run  through  Hayden  Valley,  saw 
the  reunited  herd  debouch  from  a  canyon,  with  old 
"Tuskegee"  puffing  proudly  in  the  lead.  His  tail 
was  stubbier  than  ever,  the  grizzled  red  hair  was  more 
patchy  on  the  rump  and  more  matted  on  the  neck, 
and  a  new  set  of  scars  was  criss-crossed  and  etched 
into  the  old  ones  upon  his  flanks.  The  old  fighting 
spirit  still  flamed,  however,  and  the  trooper  owed  his 
life  to  the  fact  that  the  snow  was  deep,  the  crust  firm, 
the  slope  down  and  his  ski  well  waxed.  But  a  new 
superintendent  was  in  charge,  and  his  satisfaction  at 
seeing  the  scattered  herd  once  more  united  was  so 
great  that  he  stayed  the  order  of  execution.  Since 
that  time,  strangely  enough,  "Tuskegee"  has  ap- 
peared to  show  his  appreciation  of  this  official  clem- 
ency by  behaving  in  a  most  exemplary  manner. 


SKI  SNAPS  13 

I  was  endeavouring  to  get  a  picture  of  the  main 
herd  before  it  broke  up,  when  Hope  espied  old  "Stub 
Tail"  in  the  rear  of  a  bunch  of  young  cows  who  were 
heading  away  for  the  hills.  Shouting  for  me  to  join 
him,  he  gave  chase.  We  gained  on  them  easily  in 
the  heavy  snow  of  the  valley,  and  almost  overtook 
them  where  they  floundered,  belly-deep,  on  their  er- 
ratic course.  Then  they  struck  the  wind-swept  slopes 
of  the  lower  hills,  where  the  agile  cows  drew  away 
from  us  rapidly  and  scampered  out  of  sight.  But 
not  so  old  "Tuskegee."  Whether  it  was  rheumatism 
in  his  stiff  old  joints  that  made  him  stop,  or  simple 
weariness,  or,  as  is  most  likely,  the  unconquerable 
pride  that  would  not  permit  him  to  turn  his  back 
upon  an  enemy,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  say.  In  any 
case,  he  wheeled  and  faced  us,  head  low,  hoofs  paw- 
ing the  moss,  and  snorting  in  angry  defiance. 

As  he  stood  with  his  rugged  form  towering  against 
the  white  background  of  the  snowy  hillside,  two  jets 
of  steam  rushing  from  his  nostrils,  his  jaws  flecked 
with  bloody  foam,  his  one  eye  gleaming  green  as  the 
starboard  light  of  a  steamer,  and  his  bellows  of  rage 
so  deep  that  they  seemed  to  come  from  beneath  the 
earth,  old  "Tuskegee"  might  have  been  the  vindic- 
tive incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  all  the  geysers  and 
hell  holes  in  the  Yellowstone  bent  on  an  errand  of 
wrath  and  destruction. 


14         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Right  then  and  there  I  forgot  what  I  came  for, 
forgot  the  picture  I  had  intended  to  take,  forgot 
everything  but  that  snorting  colossus  in  front  of  me 
and  the  fact  that  the  hillside  sloped  invitingly  in  the 
opposite  direction.  Wherefore  I  tried  to  swing 
around,  and  in  swinging  turned  too  short,  crossed  my 
ski,  and  fell  in  a  heap  with  my  face  in  the  snow. 

They  say  that  an  ostrich  will  snuggle  its  head  con- 
tentedly into  the  sand  and  let  a  band  of  Arabs  with 
drawn  scimitars  charge  right  into  its  tail  feathers. 
This  may  be  quite  true.  Perhaps  the  climate  of  the 
Sahara  has  something  to  do  with  it.  But  it  won't 
work  with  a  man,  a  bull  buffalo  and  a  snowdrift,  par- 
ticularly if  the  man  is  strapped  to  two  ten-foot-six 
strips  of  hickory  and  the  bull  buff'alo  has  a  bad  repu- 
tation. 

The  faith,  folly,  foohshness,  or  whatever  it  is  of 
the  ostrich  would  have  saved  me  a  lot  of  unpleasant 
apprehensions.  Every  moment  of  the  time  I  strug- 
gled to  unsocket  my  head  from  under  the  nose  of  one 
of  my  ski  I  was  sure  I  was  going  to  be  gored  the  next. 
And  I  am  certain  I  was  down  all  of  five  minutes, 
notwithstanding  Hope's  assertion  that  he  had  me 
straightened  out  and  on  my  feet  inside  of  ten  seconds. 

"Steady,  young  feller,"  I  heard  him  saying  as  I 
rubbed  the  snow  from  my  eyes;  "don't  lose  your  head 
like  that  again."     (I  wonder  if  he  meant  that  liter- 


SKI  SNAPS  15 

ally.)  ''Old  'Tusky'  won't  hurt  a  fly  nowadays. 
He's  just  posing  for  his  picture.  Gimme  that  cam- 
era.    Hold  up  there;  tain't  nothing  to  be  scared  of  I" 

That  last  was  shouted  at  me  as  I  gave  a  push  with 
my  pole  and  began  to  slide  off  down  the  hill  out  of 
the  danger  zone.  Swinging  round  to  a  reluctant 
standstill,  I  meekly  unslung  my  camera  as  Hope 
came  down  for  it.  Then,  all  set  for  a  start,  I  watched 
him  as  he  zigzagged  back  up  the  hill  toward  the  buf- 
falo. "Tusky"  was  blowing  like  a  young  Vesuvius, 
but  the  nervy  fellow,  not  a  whit  daunted,  edged  up 
to  within  twenty  feet  of  the  steaming  monster,  waited 
calmly  for  the  sun  to  come  out  from  behind  a  cloud, 
and  snapped  the  camera.  Then  we  coasted  back  to 
the  valley — I  well  in  the  lead, — leaving  the  resolute 
old  monster  in  full  possession  of  the  field. 

Our  chase  of  the  fleet-footed  wapita  was  attended 
by  less  excitement  but  more  exertion  than  was  our 
pursuit  of  the  bison.  Following  a  trail  from  Violet 
Springs,  we  were  lucky  in  encountering  a  herd  of 
from  four  to  five  hundred  grazing  where  the  spring 
sunshine  was  uncovering  the  grass  on  a  broad  expanse 
of  southerly  sloping  upland.  We  circled  to  the 
higher  hills  in  an  endeavour  to  drive  a  portion  of  the 
herd  to  the  deeper  snow  of  the  valley,  where  we  could 
overtake  them  on  our  ski.  In  the  course  of  our 
climb  we  came  upon  a  fine  young  bull  of  two  years 


16         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

or  thereabouts,  lying  in  an  alder  thicket  badly 
wounded  from  fighting.  One  of  his  graceful  horns 
was  snapped  squarely  off  a  foot  from  the  head,  his 
sides  were  frightfully  bruised  and  torn,  and  so  weak 
was  he  from  loss  of  blood  that  he  took  no  notice  what- 
ever of  our  approach.  Hope  said  that  few  bulls  are 
killed  outright  in  their  fights,  but  that  most  of  the 
badly  wounded  ones  ultimately  die  from  "scab." 

Our  efforts  to  turn  the  elk  to  the  valley  was  only 
partially  successful,  for  the  main  herd,  as  though  di- 
vining our  purpose,  set  off  on  a  mad  stampede  for 
the  mountains,  and  on  a  course  which  made  it  impos- 
sible to  head  them.  Hope,  however,  at  imminent 
risk  of  his  neck,  dropped  like  a  meteor  over  the  rim 
of  the  mesa,  negotiated  a  precarious  serpentine  curve 
among  the  butts  of  a  lot  of  deadfalls,  and  just  suc- 
ceeded in  cutting,  off  a  large  bunch  of  cows,  half  a 
dozen  "spike"  bulls,  and  a  fine  old  fourteen-pointer. 

The  bulls  were  brave  enough  at  the  beginning  of 
the  chase,  where  the  snow  was  light  and  the  going 
easy.  The  old  fellow  in  particular  kept  well  to  the 
rear  of  his  flying  family,  stopping  every  now  and 
then  to  brandish  his  horns  and  give  voice  to  clear, 
penetrating  cries  of  defiance  and  anger.  But  as  the 
herd  wallowed  into  the  coulee  that  skirted  the  foot 
of  the  hills  his  courage  deserted  him.     He,  in  turn. 


SKI  SNAPS  IT 

deserted  his  family,  and  it  was  sauve  qui  pent  for  the 
lot  of  them.  By  the  time  our  glistening  hickories 
pulled  us  up  on  the  flank  of  the  bunch  of  heaving, 
sobbing  cows,  old  "Fourteen  Points"  was  a  good  hun- 
dred yards  ahead,  with  the  "spikes"  scattered  in  be- 
tween. 

We  easily  headed  the  frightened  cows  as  they  floun- 
dered shoulder-deep,  and  I  snapped  them  several 
times  without  much  trouble.  Then  we  turned  our 
attention  to  the  big  bull.  He,  in  his  terror,  had 
charged  straight  on  down  the  coulee,  going  into  in- 
creasingly deep  snow  at  every  bound.  His  efforts 
were  magnificent  to  behold.  At  times  only  the  tips 
of  his  shining  antlers  were  visible;  again,  he  would 
break  through  with  his  fore  feet  and  fall  with  his 
muzzle  in  the  snow,  only  his  hind  quarters  showing 
above  the  crust.  At  times  he  would  be  down  fore 
and  aft,  disappearing  completely  from  sight,  only  the 
sound  of  his  mighty  limbs  as  they  churned  the  honey- 
combed snow  telling  the  story  of  the  struggle. 

His  agility  was  wonderful.  Every  ounce  of  bone, 
every  shred  of  muscle,  every  fiber  of  nerve  was 
strained  to  its  utmost.  Time  and  again  I  saw  his 
rear  hoofs  drawn  as  far  forward  and  as  high  as  his 
shoulders  in  an  effort  to  gain  a  solid  footing.  When 
the  hold  of  his  hind  legs  was  lost  he  would  reach  out 


18        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

and  bmy  his  fore  hoofs  and  nose  in  the  sinking  crust, 
and  then,  arching  his  back,  try  to  drag  his  great  body- 
up  to  them. 

As  we  pulled  up  close  behind  him  he  wallowed  into 
the  shadow  of  some  tall  pines  where  the  crust,  imex- 
posed  to  the  sun,  was  hard  and  firm.  He  struggled 
to  the  surface,  tottered  across  the  shadowed  space 
and  began  to  break  through  on  the  farther  side. 
Backing  up,  he  tried  a  fresh  place,  but  only  to  break 
through  with  all  fours.  Finally,  all  his  former  cour- 
age seeming  to  return  with  a  rush,  he  staggered  back 
against  a  tree,  lowered  his  head,  and  with  a  shrill 
trumpet  of  defiance  dared  us  to  come  on. 

That  was  just  what  we  had  hoped  and  planned  for. 
Circling  on  the  soft  snow,  well  beyond  the  reach  of 
a  rush,  I  made  several  snaps  before  we  coasted  away 
and  left  him  free  to  return  to  his  family  and  explain 
his  desertion  as  best  he  might.  The  grating  of  his 
teeth,  as  he  ground  them  together  in  elk-ish  fury,  fol- 
lowed us  for  some  distance  as  we  shd  away  down  the 
coulee. 

•  •••••• 

My  attempt  to  secure  some  mountain  sheep  pic- 
tures by  following  the  same  methods  employed  with 
the  bison  and  elk  was  brought  to  a  sudden  termina- 
tion by  what  came  so  near  to  proving  a  serious  dis- 
aster to  the  quarry  that  it  quite  destroyed  my  zest  for 


/.  E.  Ilayncs,  St.  Paul 


ELK  STALLED   IN   SNOW    (AboVe) 

AS  WE  PULLED  UP   CLOSE   BEHIND  HIM    (Below) 


J.  E.  Haynes.  St.  Paul 


SKI  SNAPS  19 

the  new  sport  and  made  me  decide  with  regret  to 
give  it  up  as  incompatible  with  my  career  as  a  writer 
on  game  protection.  This  occurred  on  the  moun- 
tains above  the  Gardiner  River  not  long  after  I  had 
returned  to  Mammoth  Hot  Springs  from  my  circu- 
lar tour  on  ski.  Hope,  whose  time  in  the  Army  was 
about  up,  was  my  fellow  culprit.  Both  of  us  doubt- 
less deserved  to  be  clapped  in  the  guard-house,  as 
we  surely  would  have  been  had  the  true  account  of 
what  happened  come  put  at  the  time.  Now,  at  the 
end  of  twenty  years,  probably  it  won't  matter  a  lot. 
Certainly  not  to  Hope  in  any  event.  After  serving 
out  three  or  four  more  re-enhstments,  he  was  killed 
in  the  Argonne  in  one  of  the  last  actions  of  the  war. 
I  quote  again  from  my  diary. 

Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  April  23. 

Hope  and  I  came  within  a  hair  of  wiping  out  the 
cream  of  the  Yellowstone  Park  herd  of  Ovis  Mon- 
tana this  morning  while  trying  to  take  its  picture.  I 
took  the  picture  all  right,  but  as  a  consequence  of  it 
the  herd  took  a  header  into  the  river.  I  think  all  of 
them  got  out,  but  it  was  a  narrow  squeeze  at  the  best. 
If  there  is  ever  an  official  inquiry  into  our  operations, 
I  am  afraid  my  reputation  as  a  game  protector  will 
be  gone  beyond  all  hope.  This  was  the  way  the 
thing  happened: 


20        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

We  had  located  with  our  glasses  a  large  flock  of 
fine  animals  several  hundred  yards  below  our  look- 
out on  Gardiner  Moimtain.  Hope  set  off  along  the 
ridge  to  the  windward  of  them,  holding  their  interest 
so  successfully  in  that  direction  that  I  was  able  to 
coast  down  from  the  opposite  side  and  bring  up 
almost  in  their  midst  before  one  of  them  knew  what 
had  happened.  I  had  time  for  one  hurried  snap  be- 
fore they  were  off,  and  another  when  a  swift  quarter- 
mile  coast  brought  me  up  almost  on  the  heels  of  the 
vanguard  of  the  flying  flock. 

Down  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  of  easy  slope  I 
held  even  with  the  tail  of  the  flock,  and  was  manoeu- 
vring for  another  exposure  when  they  came  out  up- 
on a  stretch  of  almost  level  bench  above  the  river  and 
began  to  beat  me  three-to-one.  The  leaders  had  all 
but  reached  the  shelter  of  the  timber  when  Hope, 
brandishing  his  pole  and  whooping  like  a  wild  Indian, 
dropped  with  the  suddenness  of  a  thunderbolt  from 
somewhere  among  the  snowy  cliffs  above  and  turned 
them  back.  The  unexpected  appearance  of  a  new 
enemy  sent  glimmering  such  wits  as  the  grizzled  old 
leader  still  had.  With  one  frightened  glance  to  where 
I  came  labouring  down  on  him  from  the  rear,  he 
turned  and  went  plunging  over  the  rim  of  the  cliff 
onto  the  honey-combed  ice  and  snow  that  bridged  the 
river  torrent,  the  whole  flock  following  in  his  wake. 


SKI  SNAPS  21 

Hope,  wide  eyed  with  consternation,  was  peering 
over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  as  I  came  up,  and  together 
we  watched  the  various  members  of  the  flock  pull 
themselves  together,  flounder  through  to  the  opposite 
bank  and  make  oflf  into  the  alder  thicket  beyond. 
The  game  struggle  of  the  old  patriarch  was  splendid. 
The  first  to  leap,  his  unfortunate  anatomy,  half 
buried  in  the  yielding  snow,  had  received  the  impact 
of  more  than  a  few  of  the  flying  hoofs  and  horns  that 
followed.  For  four  or  five  long  minutes  after  the 
last  of  his  mates  had  struggled  through  to  safety  he 
lay,  stunned  and  bleeding,  on  a  slender  peninsula  of 
firm  snow  that  jutted  out  over  the  surging  stream. 
As  the  sound  of  our  voices,  loud  and  tense  with  guilty 
anxiety,  floated  down  to  him,  he  roused,  pulled  him- 
self together,  and  at  almost  the  first  flounder  broke 
through  and  went  whirling  off  in  the  clutch  of  the 
angry  current. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  cave-in  his  high-flung  horns 
caught  against  the  rim  of  soft  ice,  giving  him  a  brief, 
but  what  we  felt  sure  could  be  no  more  than  a  tem- 
porary, respite  from  an  apparently  certain  fate. 
But  we  underrated  the  mettle  of  the  brave  old  vet- 
eran, for  even  while  his  sturdy  hind  quarters  drew 
down  in  the  grip  of  the  powerful  undercurrent,  one 
sharp  fore  hoof  after  the  other  gained  hold  on  the 
trembling  crust,  and  his  sinewy  body  was   almost 


22        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

lifted  to  safety  before  the  sagging  mass  gave  way 
again  and  left  him  struggling  in  the  water.  Twice, 
and  then  once  again,  was  this  same  plucky  manoeuvre 
repeated,  but  only  to  end  each  time  in  the  same  heart- 
breaking failure.  Every  fibre  of  rippling  muscle 
seemed  strained  to  the  limit  in  his  final  effort,  and 
when  the  soggy  ice  broke  away  it  looked  certain  that 
the  river  was  to  be  the  victor  after  all. 

And  such,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  the  end  had 
not  the  last  cave-in  carried  the  resolute  old  patriarch 
to  a  submerged  bar  of  shingle.  Here,  rallying  his 
seemingly  inexhaustible  strength,  he  gathered  him- 
self and  leaped  cleanly  to  a  solid  stretch  of  crust.  A 
moment  later  he  was  off  in  the  wake  of  the  rest  of 
his  flock. 

With  long-drawn  breaths  of  relief  we  turned  and 
tightened  up  the  thongs  of  our  ski  for  the  climb  out 
of  the  canyon.  It  was  not  until  half  an  hour  later, 
when  we  paused  for  rest  on  the  mesa  rim,  that  Hope's 
drawling  voice  broke  the  silence  that  had  held  be- 
tween us. 

"Young  feller,"  he  said  jerkedly  between  breaths, 
"if  the  old  one  had  drownded  down  there,  the  best 
thing  you  and  I  could  do  would  be  to  jump  in  and 
be  drownded  with  him.  Even  as  it  is,  if  the  Super 
gets  wind  of  that  monkey  show,  it's  me  for  a  dison- 
erable  discharge  and  you  for  over  the  border." 


SKI  SNAPS  23 

But  as  neither  Hope  nor  I  is  inclined  to  do  any- 
talking,  the  chances  seem  good  that  we'll  steer  clear 
of  the  trouble  we  were  so  surely  asking  for.  But  no 
more  ski-snapping  for  me,  just  the  same. 


CHAPTER  III 

HIGH   LIGHTS  AND   LOW   LIGHTS 

Grand  Canyon  Station,  April  9. 

We  made  a  three  o'clock  start  from  Norris  this 
morning  and  castne  all  the  way  to  the  Canyon  on  the 
crust.  Carr,  one  of  the  troopers  accompanying  me, 
took  a  fearful  tumble  on  the  winding  hill  that  leads 
down  to  the  Devil's  Elbow,  breaking  his  "gee-pole" 
and  badly  wrenching  one  of  his  ankles.  A  fierce 
thunderstorm  overtook  us  about  seven.  The  vivid 
flashes  of  the  lightning  produced  a  most  striking  ef- 
fect in  illuminating  the  inky  clouds  as  they  were 
blown  across  the  snowy  peaks.  A  flock  of  mountain 
sheep,  driven  from  the  upper  spurs  by  the  fury  of 
the  storm,  crossed  close  to  the  road.  I  snapped  a 
very  unusual  silhouette  of  them  as  they  paused  on  the 
crest  of  a  hill,  with  the  blown  storm-clouds  in  the 
background. 

We  reached  the  hotel  before  the  storm  was  over. 
Bursting  into  the  rear  entrance,  we  were  just  in  time 
to  find  Clark,  the  winter  keeper,  picking  himself  up 
from  the  middle  of  the  floor,  where  he  had  been 
thrown  after  coining  in  contact  with  an  electric  cur- 

24 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     25 

rent  brought  in  on  the  telephone  wire  while  he  was 
tinkering  with  the  receiver.  The  chap  seems  to  be 
an  inventive  genius.  He  has,  so  the  soldiers  told 
me,  dissected  over  a  dozen  clocks  in  an  effort  to  se- 
cure the  machinery  for  a  model  of  an  automobile  sled 
he  is  working  on.  His  last  model  was  destroyed  by 
his  dog,  which  took  the  strangely  acting  thing  for  a 
bird  or  a  rat  and  shook  it  to  pieces  before  any  one 
could  interfere.  A  few  days  later  the  brute  essayed 
to  follow  Clark  on  one  of  his  wild  slides  down  the  side 
of  the  canyon  to  the  brink  of  the  falls,  but  lost  his  foot- 
ing and  went  over  into  the  scenery.  The  inventor 
considers  this  a  propitious  sign  from  heaven. 

"For  why  should  that  dog  go  over  the  very  first 
time  he  tried  the  slide  after  he  did  that  destruction," 
he  asked  us,  "if  it  wasn't  because  the  Lord  thought 
he  stood  in  the  way  of  good  work?  Now,  with 
nothing  to  bother  me,  I  shall  build  another  model 
and  reap  my  reward." 

"But  was  the  dog  your  only  obstacle?"  I  asked. 

"By  no  means,"  was  the  reply;  "but  all  the  others 
will  be  brushed  away  just  as  was  the  dog." 

Hearken  to  that,  oh  ye  of  little  faith  I  If  faith 
will  move  mountains  there  surely  ought  to  be  no 
trouble  about  the  movement  of  Clark's  automobile 
sled. 

Clark  took  me  down  the  sidling  snow-choked  trail 


26        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

to  the  top  of  the  falls  this  afternoon,  saying  that  he 
wanted  to  show  me  how  he  did  his  famous  "Devil's 
Slide."  Utterly  unable,  in  my  comparative  inex- 
perience, to  keep  the  road,  I  was  about  to  beg  off 
when  Clark  suggested  that  I  remove  my  ski  and  ride 
the  rest  of  the  way  by  standing  on  the  back  of  his. 
It  was  a  hair-raising  coast,  but  we  made  the  brink 
without  a  spill.  More  important  still — a  point  re- 
specting which  I  had  been  most  in  doubt, — we  stopped 
there. 

Already  considerably  shaken  in  nerve,  I  tried  to 
dissuade  Clark  from  attempting  his  slide.  Reply- 
ing that  the  stunt  was  a  part  of  his  daily  routine  for 
keeping  his  wits  on  edge,  he  "corduroyed"  off  up 
the  side  of  the  canyon,  which  at  that  point  has  a  slope 
of  about  forty-five  degrees.  When  he  was  perhaps 
a  hundred  feet  above  my  head,  he  laid  hold  of  a  sap- 
ling, swung  quickly  around,  and  shot  full-tilt  for 
the  icy  brink.  I  was  sure  he  intended  to  kill  him- 
self, just  as  so  many  cracked  inventors  do.  A  sud- 
den numbness  seized  me.  The  roar  of  the  fall  grew 
deafening,  and  I  involuntarily  closed  my  eyes. 
There  was  a  thud  and  a  crash,  a  shower  of  fine 
snow  flew  over  me.  Then  the  roar  of  the  fall  re- 
sumed. 

When  I  mustered  up  the  courage  to  open  my  eyes, 
it  was  to  discover  my  mad  companion  cautiously 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     27 

drawing  himself  back  from  the  brink.  He  had 
stopped,  as  usual,  by  throwing  himself  on  his  side 
and  digging  the  edges  of  his  ski  into  the  frozen  snow. 
Although  he  wouldn't  admit  it,  I  am  certain  he  kept 
going  an  inch  or  two  more  than  was  his  wont,  for 
one  long  strip  of  hickory  was  swinging  free  beyond 
the  icy  edge  and  the  other  held  by  only  a  thin  ridge 
of  hard  snow. 

While  he  was  still  thus  poised  on  the  brink  of  King- 
dom Come,  or  rather  the  Falls  of  the  Yellowstone, 
Clark  insisted  on  explaining  to  me  the  principle  of 
a  parachute  cape  he  had  devised  for  use  in  such  an 
emergency.  He  reckoned  that  it  would  not  only 
help  in  checking  his  momentum  at  the  proper  mo- 
ment, but  would  also  have  a  tendency  to  make  his 
landing  much  less  painful  in  the  event  he  went  over. 
I  am  wondering  tonight  if  all  inventors  are  like  that. 
Clark  is  the  first  genius  I  have  ever  known,  so  I  can't 
be  quite  sure. 

Grand  Canyon  Station,  April  10. 

Clark  and  Smith  took  me  out  for  a  ski-jumping 
lesson  this  morning.  Clark  seems  to  be  rather  a  star 
performer  in  all  departments  of  ski  work,  but  he 
claims  that  he  is  better  at  jumping  than  at  anything 
else.  What  the  long,  straight  drive,  hit  cleanly  from 
the  tee,  is  to  the  golfer,  what  the  five  rails,  fairly 


28         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

taken,  is  to  the  cross-country  rider,  what  the  dash 
down  a  rocky -walled  canyon  is  to  the  river  boatman, 
the  jump  is  to  the  ski-runner.  But  what  the  foozle 
is  to  the  golfer,  the  cropper  to  the  rider,  the  spill  in 
midstream  to  the  boatman,  the  fall  at  the  end  of  the 
jump  is  to  the  ski-man.  I  saw  both  the  jump  and 
the  fall  today.  Or  rather,  I  saw  the  jump  and  felt 
the  fall.     If  I  saw  anything  at  all,  it  was  stars. 

The  jump  is  made  from  a  raised  "take-off"  at  the 
foot  of  a  hill.  The  steeper  the  hill  the  better.  The 
snow  slopes  up  from  the  foot  of  the  hill  to  the  brink 
of  the  "take-off,"  where  it  ends  abruptly.  The 
jumper  goes  off  up  the  hill  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
or  so,  turns  round  and  coasts  down  at  full  speed. 
Leaving  the  "take-off"  at  a  mile  or  more  a  minute, 
it  is  inevitable  that  he  must  be  shot  a  considerable 
distance  through  the  air.  If  he  is  well  balanced  at 
the  proper  moment  he  naturally  sails  a  lot  farther 
than  if  he  is  floundering  and  Dutch-windmilling  with 
his  arms.  Also,  he  messes  himself  and  the  snow  up 
a  lot  less  when  he  lands. 

Considering  their  short  runway  and  crudely  built 
"take-off,"  the  sixty  feet  Clark  cleared  this  morning 
was  a  fairly  creditable  performance,  though  prob- 
ably less  than  half  what  some  of  the  cracks  do  in  Nor- 
way.    Naturally,  I  could  hardly  be  expected  to  do 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     29 

as  well  as  that.  It  was  only  on  the  last  of  a  dozen 
trials  that  I  managed  to  coast  all  the  way  to  the  brink 
of  the  "take-off"  without  falling,  and  even  then  I 
was  not  sufficiently  under  control  to  stream-line  prop- 
erly and  so  minimize  air  resistance.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, therefore,  I  am  rather  pleased  with 
Clark's  verdict  anent  my  maiden  effort.  He  said  I 
hit  harder  and  showed  less  damage  from  it  than  any 
man  in  the  Park. 

Grand  Canyon  Station,  April  11. 

This  morning  we  went  down  to  Inspiration  Point 
to  watch  the  sunrise.  Never  before  did  I  realize  how 
inadequate  the  most  pretentious  descriptions  of  the 
Grand  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone  all  are.  The 
greatest  of  the  world's  word  painters  have  only  suc- 
ceeded in  stringing  together  a  lot  of  colours  like  the 
variegated  tags  on  a  paint  company's  sample  sheet, 
throwing  in  a  liberal  supply  of  trope  and  hyperbole, 
making  a  few  comparisons  to  heaven  and  hell,  sun- 
rise and  sunset  and  a  field  of  flowers,  and  mixing  the 
whole  together  and  serving  it  up  garnished  with  ad- 
jectives of  the  awful,  terrible,  immense  and  stupen- 
dous order. 

It  is  not  in  singling  out  each  crag  and  pinnacle, 
or  in  separating  each  bright  streak  of  colour  from  its 


30        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

neighbour  and  admiring  it  alone,  that  one  comes  to 
the  fullest  appreciation  of  the  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  the  canyon.  It  is  rather  in  being  gradually  taken 
possession  of  by  the  spirit  of  the  place,  an  influence 
that  lasts  long  after  you  have  ceased  to  look,  a  feeling 
far  deeper  than  the  mere  transient  delight  of  gazing 
on  a  beautiful  picture. 

Yesterday's  thaw  must  have  raised  the  water  in 
the  Lake.  The  river  is  much  higher  today,  and  the 
snow-bridges  above  the  falls,  as  well  as  the  heaped-in 
drifts  below,  are  breaking  away  in  huge  masses. 
The  snow-cap  on  the  brink,  with  the  water  gushing 
forth  from  under  it,  has  much  the  appearance  of  a 
gigantic  alabaster  gargoyle.  The  river  shoots  down 
under  the  snow  and  leaps  out  over  the  chasm  in  a 
clean  compact  stream  of  bottle-green.  Half-way 
down  the  resistance  of  the  air  has  whitened  the  jet, 
and  as  it  disappears  behind  the  great  pile  at  its  foot 
it  is  dashed  to  a  spray  so  snowy  that,  from  a  distance, 
the  line  between  water  and  drift  defies  the  eye  to 

fi[X. 

As  we  edged  our  way  out  to  a  better  position  the 
sun  rose  and  threw  a  series  of  three  rainbows  in  the 
mist  clouds  as  they  floated  up  out  of  the  shadowed 
depths.  The  lowest  and  clearest  of  these  semi-circles 
of  irised  spray  seemed  to  spring  from  a  patch  of 
bright  saffon  sand,  where  it  was  laid  bare  by  the  melt- 


I 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     31 

ing  snow.     Now  I  know  where  the  story  of  the  gold 
at  the  end  of  the  rainbow  came  from. 

Lake  Station,  April  12. 

Carr  and  I  tried  to  come  through  from  the  Canyon 
by  moonlight  last  night  and  had  rather  a  bad  time 
of  it.  First  a  fog  obscured  the  moon.  Then  we  tried 
to  take  a  short  cut  by  following  the  telephone  line, 
got  lost  in  the  dark,  and  staid  lost  till  the  moon  set 
and  made  it  darker  still.  In  cutting  across  the  hills 
to  get  back  into  Hayden  Valley,  Carr  fell  over  a 
snow-bank  and  landed  right  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
where  it  had  been  laid  bare  by  the  heat  of  hot  springs. 
Starting  again,  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  hill  and 
coasted  down  at  a  smart  gait.  As  we  sped  to  the 
bottom  I  became  aware  of  a  dark  blur  beyond  the 
white  of  the  snow.  Then  there  was  a  sudden  stop- 
page, and  I  seemed  to  see  a  re-risen  moon,  with  a 
whole  cortege  of  comets  in  its  wake,  dancing  about 
the  sky.  I  came  to  at  the  touch  of  a  handful  of 
snow  on  my  face,  to  learn  that  I  had  coasted  right 
onto  a  bare  spot  in  the  road  and  stopped  in  half  a  ski- 
length.  My  heavily  loaded  knapsack,  shooting  along 
the  line  of  least  resistance  up  my  spine,  had  come  into 
violent  contact  with  the  back  of  my  head,  producing 
the  astronomical  pyrotechnic  illusion. 

After  a  while  we  were  lost  again,  this  time  in  a 
level  space  bounded  on  four  sides  by  a  winding  creek. 


32         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

I  know  it  was  on  four  sides  of  the  place,  for  we  care- 
fully walked  off  toward  each  point  of  the  compass 
in  rotation,  and  each  time  landed  in  the  creek.  We 
finally  escaped  by  wading.  How  we  got  in  without 
wading  will  always  be  a  mystery.  Carr  said  the 
stream  was  called  Trout  Creek.  Doubtless  he  is 
right ;  but  if  there  were  any  trout  over  six  inches  long 
there  last  night  they  must  have  been  permanently 
disjointed  at  more  than  one  vertebral  connection  by 
having  to  conform  to  those  confounded  bends. 

We  passed  the  famous  and  only  Mud  Geyser  an 
hour  before  daybreak.  Things  were  in  a  bad  way 
with  him,  judging  from  the  noise.  The  mutterings 
of  the  old  mud-slinger  in  his  quieter  moments  reminds 
me  very  much  of  a  Chilkat  Mission  Indian  reciting 
the  Lord's  Prayer  in  his  native  tongue — just  a  rapid 
succession  of  deep  gutturals.  But  when  some  par- 
ticularly indigestible  concoction — served,  possibly  by 
subterranean  dumb-waiter  from  the  adjacent  Devil's 
Kitchen — interferes  with  the  gastronomies  of  the  old 
epicure,  his  voice  is  anything  but  prayerful.  Carr 
said  it  reminded  him  of  something  between  a  mad  bull 
buffalo  and  a  boat  load  of  seasick  tourists  when  the 
summer  wind  stirs  up  the  Lake.  But  Carr  was  too 
tired  and  disgusted  to  be  elegant.  Indeed,  we  were 
both  pretty  well  played  out.  Personally,  I  felt  just 
about  like  the  Mud  Geyser  sounded. 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     33 

After  about  an  hour's  groping  in  the  dark,  we  found 
an  emergency  cabin  near  the  Mud  Geyser.  Building 
a  fire,  we  warmed  and  ate  a  can  of  salmon.  When 
it  was  light  enough  to  see,  we  slipped  on  the  ski 
and  came  through  on  the  crust  in  short  order. 

Thumb  Emergency  Cabin,  April  15. 

Making  a  start  before  daybreak,  we  crossed  Yel- 
lowstone Lake  on  the  ice.  It  was  a  wonderful  op- 
portunity to  watch  the  light  and  shade  effects  on  the 
encircling  mountains.  Far  to  the  southwest  there  is 
a  very  striking  pyramidal  peak.  Two  flat  snow- 
paved  slopes  of  the  mighty  pile,  divided  by  an  even 
ridge  of  black  rock  that  rears  itself  in  sharp  contrast 
to  the  beds  of  white  that  bulwark  the  base,  form  the 
sides  of  the  pyramid.  The  southeastern  side  so  lies 
that  it  catches  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun  and 
sends  them  off  in  shimmering  streamers  across  the 
lake — Nature's  heliographic  signal  of  the  coming 
day. 

An  hour  or  more  later  the  sun  itself  appears  above 
the  eastern  hills,  silvering  the  tops  of  the  frosted  fir 
trees  and  whitening  the  vaporous  clouds  above  Steam- 
boat Point  and  Brimstone  Basin.  The  green  ice  in 
the  little  glaciers  near  the  sunmiit  of  the  big  mountain 
kindle  and  sparkle  like  handfuls  of  emeralds,  and  the 
reflected  sun-flashes  play  in  quivering  motes  of  danc- 


34        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ing  light  on  the  snowy  flanks  of  Elephant  Back. 

Meanwhile  the  south-west  face  of  the  great  pyra- 
mid, lying  in  heavy  shadow,  sleeps  dull  and  black 
until  the  morning  is  well  advanced.  Then,  suddenly, 
without  a  perceptible  premonitory  fading  of  the  sha- 
dow plane,  the  whole  snow-field  becomes  a  shining 
sheet,  as  white  and  clear-cut  as  thought  carved  from 
alabaster.  At  noon  the  sun,  standing  full  above  the 
black  dividing  line  of  rock,  sheds  an  impartial  light  on 
either  side  of  the  mountain.  PerspectivQ  is  lost  for 
the  moment,  and  there  appears  to  be  but  one  broad 
field  of  snow,  with  a  black  line  traced  down  its  mid- 
dle. 

Toward  midaf ternoon  the  eastern  side  draws  on  its 
coat  of  black  as  suddenly  as  that  of  the  other  was  cast 
aside  in  the  morning.  Now  the  former  is  almost  in- 
discernible, while  the  latter,  gleaming  in  the  sunlight 
like  a  great  sheet  of  white  paper,  seems  suspended  in 
the  air  by  invisible  wires.  And  there  it  continues  to 
hang,  while  the  shadows  deepen  along  the  shores  and 
creep  out  over  the  ice  in  wavering  lines  as  night  de- 
scends upon  the  frozen  lake.  Gradually  the  white 
sheet  fades  to  nothingness,  until  at  last  its  position  is 
marked  only  by  a  blank  blur  unpricked  by  the  twinkle 
of  awakening  stars. 

It  is  as  though  the  page  of  the  day,  new,  bright, 
pure  and  unsullied  in  the  morning,  had  at  last  been 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     35 

turned  to  the  place  reserved  for  it  from  the  dawn  of 
creation,  blackened  and  blemished  and  stained  by  the 
sins  of  a  world  of  men. 

( 1922 — I  am  considerably  moved — I  won't  say  how 
or  to  what — by  that  little  "sins-of-a-world-of-men" 
touch.  It  is  something  to  have  begim  life  as  a  moral- 
ist, anyhow.) 

Fountain  Station,  April  17. 

This  morning  it  was  colder  again,  and  we  were  wit- 
ness of  a  most  wonderful  sight  when  a  snow  squaU 
chanced  along  while  the  Fountain  Geyser  was  in  full 
eruption.  The  storm  swooped  down  with  sudden  fury 
while  we  were  watching  the  steam  jets  in  the  Mam- 
moth Paint  Piot  throw  evanescent  lilies  and  roses 
in  the  coloured  mud.  We  were  waiting  for  the  Great 
Fountain,  most  beautiful  of  aU  the  geysers  of  the 
Bark,  to  get  over  her  fit  of  coyness  and  burst  into  ac- 
tion. The  Fountain,  by  the  way,  is  one  of  the  few 
geysers  always  spoken  of  in  the  feminine  gender.  I 
asked  if  this  was  on  account  of  her  beauty,  but  Carr, 
who  had  a  wife  once,  thinks  her  uncertainty  of  temper 
had  more  to  do  with  it. 

The  imperious  advance  of  the  Storm  King  seemed 
still  further  to  intimidate  the  bashful  beauty,  and  at 
first  she  only  shrank  the  deeper  into  her  subterranean 
bower.    But  when  the  little  snowflakes,  like  gentle 


36        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

but  persistent  caresses,  began  to  shower  softly  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  pool  the  silver  bubbles  came  surging 
up  with  a  rush.  In  a  moment  more,  as  a  maid  over- 
come with  the  fervour  of  her  love  springs  to  the  arms 
of  her  lover,  the  queenly  geyser  leaped  forth  in  all 
her  splendour,  eight  feet  of  beaming,  bubbling  green 
and  white  thrown  with  precipitate  eagerness  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  Storm  King.  Whereupon  the  latter 
threw  all  restraint  to  the  winds  and  responded  with 
a  gust  of  bold,  blustering,  ungovernable  passion. 
Roaring  in  his  triumph,  beating  and  winding  her  in 
sheets  of  driven  snow,  he  grappled  her  in  his  might  and 
bent  her  back  and  down  until  the  great  steam-clouds 
from  her  crest,  like  coils  of  flowing  hair,  were  blown 
in  curling  masses  along  the  earth. 

For  a  full  half  hour  they  struggled  in  reckless  aban- 
don, granting  full  play  to  the  ardour  of  their  elemen- 
tal passions,  reeling  and  swaying  in  advance  and  re- 
treat, as  the  mighty  forces  controlling  them  alter- 
nated in  mastery.  When  the  gusts  fell  light  the  gey- 
ser played  to  her  full  height,  melting  a  wide  circle  in 
the  snow  that  had  been  driven  up  to  her  very  mouth. 
When  the  wind  came  again  she  bent,  quivering  to  his 
will,  but  only  to  spring  back  erect  as  the  gust  weak- 
ened and  died  down. 

Presently  the  storm  passed,  the  sun  came  out  and 
the  north  wind  ceased  to  blow.     Full  of  the  gladness 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS    ST 

of  her  love,  the  queenly  geyser  reared,  rippling,  to  her 
full  height,  held  for  a  moment,  a  coruscating  tower 
of  brilliants,  and  then,  with  little  sobs  and  gasps  of 
happiness  and  contentment,  sank  back  into  her  crys- 
tal chamber  to  dream  and  await  the  next  coming 
of  her  impetuous  northern  lover.  Or  so  I  fancied, 
at  any  rate,  as  we  watched  the  water  sink  away  into 
the  beryline  depths  of  its  crater.  But  I  failed  to 
reckon  with  the  sex  of  the  beauty.  This  afternoon, 
returning  from  a  visit  to  Fairy  Falls,  we  passed  over 
the  formation.  An  indolent  young  breeze,  just  awak- 
ened from  his  siesta  among  the  southern  hills,  came 
picking  his  way  up  the  valley  of  the  Madison,  and 
the  fickle  Fountain  was  fairly  choking  in  her  eager- 
ness to  tell  how  glad  she  was  to  see  him.  But  her 
faithlessness  had  its  proper  reward.  The  blase  blade 
passed  the  flirtatious  jade  by  without  deigning  even 
to  ruffle  her  steam-cloud  hair.  The  soldiers  said  he 
had  probably  gone  on  to  keep  an  engagement  at  the 
Punch  Bowl,  where  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of  stirring 
things  up  a  bit  with  a  giddy  young  zephyr  who  blows 
in  to  meet  him  there  from  down  Snake  River  way. 

Norris  Station,  April  18. 

This  has  been  a  memorable  day,  for  in 
the  course  of  it  I  have  seen  two  of  the  most 
famous  manifestations   of  the  Yellowstone  in  ac- 


38        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

tion — ^the  Giant  Geyser  erupting  and  Bill  Wade 
swearing.  The  Giant  is  the  biggest  geyser  in  Amer- 
ica, and  Bill  Wade  is  reputed  to  have  the  largest 
vocabulary  of  one-language  profanity  in  the  North- 
west. True,  there  is  said  to  be  a  chap  over  in  the 
legislature  at  Helena  that  can  out-cuss  Wade  under 
certain  conditions,  but  he  is  college  bred,  speaks  four 
languages  and  has  to  be  under  the  influence  of  liquor 
to  do  consistent  work.  Wade  requires  no  artificial 
stimulants,  but  he  does  have  to  get  mad  before  he 
can  do  himself  full  justice.  Today  something  hap- 
pened to  make  him  sizzUng  mad.  The  eruption  of 
the  Giant  is  startling  and  beautiful,  the  river,  as  it 
takes  its  three-hundred-foot  leap  to  the  depths  of  the 
Grand  Canyon,  is  subhme  and  awe-inspiring,  but  for 
sheer  fearsomeness  Wade's  swearing — ^viewed  dispas- 
sionately and  with  no  consideration  of  its  ethical 
bearing — ^is  the  real  wonder  of  the  Yellowstone. 

We  were  climbing  the  hill  back  of  the  Fountain 
Hotel — ^Wade,  two  troopers  and  myself.  Wade,  who 
is  the  winter  keeper  of  the  hotel  and  not  too  skilled 
with  ski,  tried  to  push  straight  up  the  steep  slope. 
Half-way  to  the  top  he  slipped,  fell  over  a  stump, 
gained  fresh  impetus  and  came  bounding  to  the  bot- 
tom over  the  hard  crust,  a  wildly  waving  pin-wheel  of 
arms,  legs  and  clattering  ski.  He  was  torn,  bruised 
and  scratched  from  the  brush  and  trees,  and  one  of 


':'.  Ilaynes.  St.  Paul 


THE  GIANT  IS  THE  BIGGEST  GEYSER  IN  NORTH  AMERICA 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     39 

his  long  "hickories"  was  snapped  at  the  instep.  For 
the  moment  he  uttered  no  word,  but  the  soldiers,  who 
knew  what  was  coming,  held  their  breath  and  waited 
in  trembling  anticipation.  The  air  was  charged  as  be- 
fore a  thunderstorm.  A  hush  fell  upon  us  all,  a  hush 
like  the  silence  that  settles  upon  a  ring  of  tourists 
around  Old  Faithful  as  the  boiling  water,  sinking 
back  with  gurgling  growls,  heralds  the  imminent  erup- 
tion. 

Wade  removed  his  ski,  laid  the  fragments  on  the 
snow  and  folded  his  coat  across  them,  as  a  pious  Mus- 
sulman spreads  his  prayer-mat.  Seating  himself 
cross-legged  on  the  coat,  he  cast  his  eyes  heavenward, 
on  his  face  an  expression  as  pure  and  passionless  as 
that  on  the  countenance  of  the  Sistine  Madonna. 
For  a  few  moments  he  was  silent,  as  though  putting 
away  earthly  things  and  concentrating  his  mind  on 
the  business  in  hand.  Then  he  began  to  simMnon  the 
powers  of  heaven  and  the  powers  of  hell  and  call  them 
to  reckoning.  He  held  them  all  accountable.  Then 
came  the  saints — every  illustrious  one  in  the  calendar. 
Saint  by  saint  he  called  them  and  bade  them  witness 
the  state  they  had  brought  him  to.  Spirits  of  light, 
imps  of  darkness — all  were  charged  in  turn. 

His  voice  grew  shriller  and  shriller  as  his  pent-up 
fury  was  unleashed.  He  cursed  snow,  hill,  snags, 
stumps,  trees  and  ski.     He  cursed  by  the  eyes,  as  the 


40        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

sailor  curses,  and  by  the  female  progenitor,  as  the 
cowboy.  He  cursed  till  his  face  turned  from  white  to 
red,  from  red  to  purple,  from  purple  to  black;  he 
cursed  till  the  veins  in  knots  and  cords  seemed  burst- 
ing from  his  forehead;  he  cursed  till  his  voice  sunk 
from  a  bellow  to  a  raucous  howl,  weakened  to  con- 
vulsive gasps  and  died  rattling  in  his  throat,  till  brain 
and  body  reeled  under  the  strain  and  he  sank  into  a 
quivering  heap  at  our  feet. 

I  shall  always  regret  that  the  eruption  of  the  Park's 
greatest  geyser  came  after,  rather  than  before,  that 
of  Wade.  Frankly,  the  spouting  of  the  mighty 
Giant  seemed  a  bit  tame  after  the  forces  we  had  just 
seen  unleased  over  behind  the  hotel. 

•  •••••• 

Wade,  coming  through  to  Norris  with  us  this  aft- 
ernoon, got  into  more  trouble.  Unfortunately,  too, 
it  was  under  conditions  which  made  it  impracticable 
to  relieve  his  feelings  in  a  swear-fest.  The  snow 
around  the  Fountain  was  nearly  all  gone  when  we 
started,  and  we  found  it  only  in  patches  along  the 
road  down  to,  the  Madison.  After  carrying  our  ski 
for  a  mile  without  being  able  to  use  them,  we  de- 
cided on  Holt's  advice,  to  take  the  old  wood  trail  over 
the  hills.  This,  though  rough  and  steep,  was  well 
covered  with  snow.  We  all  took  a  good  many  tum- 
bles in  dodging  trees  and  scrambling  through  the 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     41 

brush,  Wade  being  particularly  unfortunate.  Fi- 
nally, however,  we  reached  the  top  of  the  long  wind- 
ing hill  that  leads  back  to  the  main  road  by  the  Gib- 
bon River.  Here  we  stopped  to  get  our  wind  and 
tighten  our  ski-thongs  for  the  downward  plunge. 
At  this  point  we  discovered  that  the  snow  of  the  old 
road  had  been  much  broken  and  wallowed  by  some 
large  animals. 

"Grizzlies,"  pronounced  Holt,  as  he  examined  the 
first  of  a  long  row  of  tracks  that  led  off  down  the 
hill.  "Do  you  see  those  claw  marks?  Nothing  like 
a  grizzly  for  nailing  down  his  footprints.  Doesn't 
seem  to  care  if  you  do  track  him  home." 

The  last  words  were  almost  lost  as  he  disappeared, 
a  grey  streak,  around  the  first  bend.  Carr  and  I 
hastened  to  follow,  and  Wade,  awkwardly  astride  of 
his  pole,  brought  up  the  rear.  I  rounded  the  turn  at 
a  sharp  clip,  cutting  hard  on  the  inside  with  my  pole 
to  keep  the  trail.  Then,  swinging  into  the  straight 
stretch  beyond,  I  waved  my  pole  on  high  in  the  ap- 
proved manner  of  real  ski  cracks,  and  gathered  my 
breath  for  the  downward  plunge.  And  not  until 
the  air  was  beginning  to  whip  my  face  and  my  speed 
was  quite  beyond  control,  did  I  see  two  great  hairy 
beasts  standing  up  to  their  shoulders  in  a  hole  in 
the  middle  of  the  trail.  Holt  was  on  them  even  as  I 
looked.     Holding  his  course  until  he  all  but  reached 


42        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

the  wallow,  he  swerved  sharply  to  the  right  against 
the  steeply  sloping  bank,  passed  the  bears,  and  then 
eased  back  to  the  trail  again.  A  few  seconds  later 
he  was  a  twinkling  shadow,  flitting  down  the  long 
lane  of  spruces  in  the  river  bottom. 

The  stolid  brutes  never  moved  from  their  tracks. 
I  made  no  endeavour  to  stop,  but,  adopting  Holt's 
tactics,  managed  to  give  a  clumsy  imitation  of  his 
superlatively  clever  avoidance  of  the  blockade.  Ven- 
turing to  glance  back  over  my  shoulder  as  I  regained 
the  trail,  I  crossed  the  points  of  my  ski  and  was 
thrown  headlong  onto  the  crust.  Beyond  filling  my 
eyes  with  snow  I  was  not  hurt  in  the  least.  My  ski 
thongs  were  not  even  broken. 

My  momentary  glance  had  revealed  Wade,  eyes 
popping  from  his  head  and  face  purple  with  frantic 
effort,  riding  his  pole  and  straining  every  muscle  to 
come  to  a  stop.  But  all  in  vain.  While  I  still  strug- 
gled to  get  up  and  under  way  again,  there  came  a 
crash  and  a  yell  from  above,  followed  by  a  scuffle 
and  a  gust  of  snorts  and  snarls.  When  I  regained 
my  feet  a  few  seconds  later  nothing  was  visible  on 
the  trail  but  the  ends  of  two  long  strips  of  hickory. 
Scrambling  up  the  side  of  the  cut  and  faUing  over 
each  other  in  their  haste,  went  two  panic  stricken  griz- 
zlies. 

Wade  kicked  out  of  his  ski,  crawled  up  from  the 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     43 

hole,  and  was  just  about  to  spread  his  swear-mat  and 
tell  everything  and  everybody  between  high  heaven 
and  low  hell  what  he  thought  of  them  for  the  trick 
they  had  played  on  him  when,  with  a  rimibling,  quiz- 
zical growl,  a  huge  hairy  Jack-in-the-Box  shot  forth 
from  a  deep  hole  on  the  lower  side  of  the  road.  Bur- 
rowing deep  for  succulent  roots  sweet  with  the  first 
run  of  spring  sap,  the  biggest  grizzly  of  the  lot  had 
escaped  the  notice  of  both  of  us  until  he  reared  up 
on  his  haunches  in  an  effort  to  learn  what  all  the 
racket  was  about.  A  push  with  my  pole  quickly  put 
me  beyond  reach  of  all  possible  complications.  Poor 
Wade  rolled  and  floundered  for  a  hundred  yards 
through  the  deep  snow  before  stopping  long  enough 
to  look  back  and  observe  that  the  third  grizzly  was 
beating  him  three-to-one — in  the  opposite  direction. 
So  profound  was  his  relief  that  he  seemed  to  forget 
all  about  the  swear-fest.  My  companions  claim  they 
never  knew  anything  of  the  kind  to  happen  before. 

Norris  Station,  April  19. 

There  are  a  number  of  things  that  are  for- 
bidden in  Yellowstone  Park,  but  the  worst  one 
a  man  can  do,  short  of  first  degree  murder,  is 
to  "soap"  a  geyser.  Because  the  unnatural  activity 
thus  brought  about  is  more  than  likely  to  re- 
sult in  the  destruction  of  a  geyser's  digestive  system. 


44         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

this  offence — and  most  properly  so — is  very  heavily 
penalized.  Wherefore  we  are  speculating  tonight 
as  to  what  will  happen  to  little  Ikey  Einstein  in  case 
the  Superintendent  finds  out  what  he  did  this  after- 
noon. 

Ikey  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  tour  at  any 
time.  That  is  one  thing  to  be  thankful  for.  Dis- 
charged from  the  Army  a  few  days  ago,  he  had  been 
given  some  kind  of  job  at  the  Lake  Hotel  for  the 
summer.  He  is  on  his  way  there  now,  he  says,  and 
is  holding  over  here  for  the  crust  to  freeze  before 
pushing  on.  Time  was  hanging  rather  heavily  on  his 
hands  this  afternoon,  which  is  probably  the  reason 
that  he  cooked  up  a  case  of  laundry  soap  in  a  five- 
gallon  oil  can  and  poured  the  resultant  mess  down 
the  crater  of  "The  Minute  Man."  The  latter  won 
its  name  as  a  consequence  of  playing  with  remarkable 
regularity  practically  upon  the  sixtieth  tick  of  the 
minute  from  its  last  spout.  Or,  at  least,  that  was 
what  was  claimed  for  it.  Ikey  maintains  that  he 
clocked  it  for  half  an  hour,  and  that  it  never  did 
better  than  once  in  eighty  seconds,  and  that  it  was 
increasing  its  interval  as  the  sun  declined.  He  held 
that  a  geyser  that  refused  to  recognize  its  duty  to 
live  up  to  its  name  and  reputation  should  be  disci- 
plined— ^just  like  in  the  Army.  Perhaps  it  was  dis- 
couraged from  getting  so  far  behind  schedule.     If 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     45 

that  was  the  case,  plainly  the  proper  thing  to  do 
was  to  help  it  to  make  up  lost  time  in  one  whale  of 
an  eruption,  and  then  it  might  start  with  a  clean  slate 
and  live  up  to  its  name.  He  was  only  acting  for  the 
geyser's  own  good.  Thus  Ikey,  but  only  after  he 
had  put  his  theory  into  practice. 

Ikey  waited  until  he  had  the  station  to  himself  be- 
fore cooking  up  his  dope.  Holt  had  pushed  on  to 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs  and  Carr  and  I  had  gone 
out  to  watch  for  the  eruption  of  the  Monarch.  With 
no  scout  and  non-com  present,  he  doutless  figured  he 
would  run  small  chance  of  having  his  experiment  in- 
terfered with.  Carr  and  I,  sitting  on  the  formation 
over  by  the  crater  of  the  Monarch,  saw  him  come 
down  with  an  oil  can  on  his  shoulder  and  start  fus- 
sing round  in  the  vicinity  of  "The  Minute  Man." 
Suddenly  a  series  of  heavy  reverberations  shook  the 
formation  beneath  our  feet,  and  at  the  same  instant 
Ikey  turned  tail  and  started  to  run.  He  was  just  in 
time  to  avoid  the  deluge  from  a  great  gush  of  water 
and  steam  that  shot  a  hundred  feet  in  the  air,  but  not 
to  escape  the  mountainous  discharge  of  soapsuds  that 
followed  in  its  wake.  Within  a  few  seconds  that 
original  five  gallons  of  soft  soap  had  been  beaten  to 
a  million  times  its  original  volume,  and  for  a  hun- 
dred yards  to  windward  it  covered  the  formation  in 
great  white,  fluffy,  iridescent  heaps.     Pear's  Soap's 


46        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

original  "Bubbles"  boy  wasn't  a  patch  on  the  sput- 
tering little  Hebrew  who  finally  pawed  his  way  to 
fresh  air  and  sunshine  from  the  outermost  of  the 
sparkling  saponaceous  hillocks.  Carr,  whose  mother 
had  been  a  washer-woman,  almost  wept  at  the  visions 
of  his  innocent  childhood  conjured  up  by  the  sight 
of  such  seas  of  suds. 

For  a  good  half  hour  "The  Minute  Man"  retched 
and  coughed  in  desperate  efforts  to  spew  forth  the 
nauseous  mess  that  had  been  poured  down  its  throat. 
Then  its  efforts  became  scattering  and  spasmodic, 
finally  ceasing  entirely.  For  an  hour  longer  a  dimin- 
uendo of  gasps  and  gurgles  rattled  in  its  racked 
throat.  At  last  even  these  ceased,  and  a  death-bed 
silence  fell  upon  the  formation.  There  has  not  been 
the  flutter  of  a  pulse  since.  It  really  looks  as  though 
"The  Minute  Man,"  his  innermost  vitals  torn  asunder 
by  the  terrific  expansion  of  boiling  water  acting  upon 
soft  soap,  is  dead  for  good  and  all.  I  only  hope  I 
am  not  going  to  be  mixed  up  in  the  inquest. 

Crystal  Springs  Emergency  Cabin,  April  20. 

Wade  and  I  had  a  long  and  heated  session  of  reli- 
gious argument  at  Norris  last  night,  of  which  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  I  had  a  shade  the  best.  A  half  hour 
ago,  however,  he  pulled  off  a  coup  which  he  seems  to 
feel  has  about  evened  the  score.    At  least  I  just  over- 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     47 

heard  him  telling  Carr  that,  while  that  "dern'd  repor- 
ter was  a  mighty  slippery  cuss,"  he  reckoned  that  he 
finally  got  the  pesky  dude  where  he  didn't  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say.     This  was  something  the  way  of  it : 

Wade  is  a  sort  of  amateur  agnostic,  and,  next  to 
swearing,  his  favourite  pastime  is  arguing  "agin  the 
church."  He  has  read  Voltaire  and  Bob  IngersoU  in 
a  haphazard  way,  and  also  sopped  up  some  queer  odds 
and  ends  from  works  on  metaphysics  and  philoso- 
phy. These  give  him  his  basic  ideas  which,  alche- 
mized in  the  wonderworking  laboratory  of  his  mind, 
produce  some  golden  theories.  He  holds,  for  in- 
stance, that  no  wise  and  beneficent  being  would  cast 
a  devil  out  of  a  woman  and  into  a  drove  of  hogs,  be- 
cause hogs  were  good  to  eat  and  women  wasn't. 
Making  the  hogs  run  off  a  cut-bank  into  the  sea 
meant  spoiling  good  meat,  and  no  wise  and  beneficent 
being  would  do  that.  He  reckoned  the  whole  yarn 
was  just  a  bit  of  bull  anyhow,  and  if  it  really  did 
happen,  wasn't  modern  science  able  to  account  for 
it  by  the  fact  that  the  girl  was  plain  daffy  and  the 
hogs  had  "trichiny"  worms  and  stampeded? 

Little  touches  like  that  go  a  long  way  toward 
brightening  the  gloom  of  a  winter  evening,  and  for 
that  reason  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  keep  Wade 
on  production.  Unfortunately,  my  knowledge  of 
theology  is  not  profound,  while  Wade,  with  his  wits 


48         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

sharpened  on  every  itinerant  sky-pilot  who  has  ever 
endeavoured  to  herd  in  the  black  sheep  of  the  Yellow- 
stone, has  all  his  guns  ready  to  bear  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice. Naturally,  therefore,  in  a  matter  of  straight 
argument,  he  has  had  me  on  the  run  from  his  opening 
salvo.  But  always  at  the  last  I  have  robbed  his  vic- 
tories of  all  sweetness  by  ducking  back  into  the  cita- 
del of  dogma,  and  telling  him  that  I  can't  consent  to 
argue  with  him  unless  he  sticks  to  premises — that  the 
Church  cannot  eliminate  the  element  of  faith,  which 
he  persists  in  ignoring.  Then,  leaving  him  fuming,  I 
turn  in  and  muiHe  my  exposed  ear  with  a  pillow. 

That  was  about  the  way  it  went  last  night  at  Nor- 
ris,  except  that  both  of  us,  very  childishly,  lost  our 
tempers  and  indulged  in  personalities.  Wade  re- 
fused to  accept  the  fact  of  my  retirement  and  violated 
my  rest  by  staying  up  and  poking  the  stove.  When 
I  uncovered  my  head  to  protest,  he  took  the  occasion 
to  ask  me  how  I  reconciled  the  theory  of  the  **conser- 
vashun"  of  matter  with  the  story  of  the  loaves  and 
the  fishes.  I  snapped  out  pettishly  that  I  could  rec- 
oncile myself  to  the  story  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  a 
darn  site  easier  than  I  could  to  the  stories  of  a  fish 
and  a  loafer.  It  was  a  shameful  and  inexcusable 
lapse  of  breeding  on  my  part,  especially  as  Wade,  be- 
ing a  hotel  watchman  without  active  duties,  was  ab- 
normally  sensitive    about   being   referred   to   as   a 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     49 

loafer.  At  first  he  seemed  to  be  divided  between 
rushing  me  with  a  poker  and  sitting  down  for  a 
swear-fest.  Finally,  however,  he  did  a  much  more 
dignified  thing  than  either  by  serving  flat  notice  that 
he  would  never  again  speak  to  me  upon  any 
subject  whatever. 

Wade  made  a  brave  effort  to  stand  by  his  resolve. 
To  my  very  contrite  apology  in  the  morning  he  turned 
a  deaf  ear.  Getting  himself  a  hasty  breakfast,  he 
kicked  into  his  ski  and  pushed  off  down  the  Mammoth 
Springs  road  at  four  o'clock.  When  Carr  and  I 
started  an  hour  later  a  drizzling  rain  had  set  in, 
making  the  going  the  hardest  and  most  disagreeable 
of  the  whole  trip.  The  snow,  honeycombed  by  the 
rain,  offered  no  support  to  our  ski,  and  we  wallowed 
to  our  knees  in  soft  slush.  The  drizzle  increased  to 
a  steady  downpour  as  the  morning  advanced,  drench- 
ing our  clothes  till  the  water  ran  down  and  filled  our 
rubber  shoes.  Buckskin  gauntlets  soaked  through 
faster  then  they  could  be  wrung  out.  It  was  not 
long  before  chilled  hands  became  almost  powerless  to 
grasp  the  slippery  steering  poles  and  numbing  fmgers 
fumbled  helplessly  in  their  efforts  to  tighten  the 
stretching  thongs  of  rawhide  that  bound  on  our  ski. 

Wade  was  spitting  a  steady  stream  of  curses  where 
we  pulled  up  on  his  heels  at  the  mud  flats  by  Beaver 
Lake,  but  sullenly  refused  to  make  way  for  me  to 


50        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

take  the  lead  and  break  trail.  Past  Obsidian  Cliff, 
on  the  still  half-frozen  pavement  of  broken  glass,  the 
going  was  better,  and  I  managed  to  pass  and  cut  in 
ahead  of  the  wallowing  watchman  just  before  we 
came  to  the  long  avenue  of  pines  running  past  Crys- 
tal Springs.  He  seemed  barely  able  to  drag  one  sag- 
ging knee  up  past  the  other,  and  his  half -averted  face 
was  seamed  deep  with  lines  of  weariness.  Only  the 
spasmodic  movement  of  his  lips  told  of  the  unborn 
curses  that  his  overworked  lungs  lacked  the  power  to 
force  forth  upon  the  air. 

Realizing  from  the  fact  that  he  lacked  the  breath  to 
curse  how  desperately  near  a  collapse  the  fellow  must 
be,  I  whipped  up  my  own  flagging  energies  with  the 
idea  of  pushing  on  ahead  to  the  cabin  and  getting  a 
fire  started  and  a  pot  of  coffee  boiling.  Shouting  to 
Carr  to  stand  by  to  bring  in  the  remains,  I  spurted 
on  as  fast  as  I  could  over  the  crust  which  was  still 
far  from  rotted  by  the  rain.  I  was  a  good  three  hun- 
dred yards  ahead  of  my  companions  when  I  turned 
from  the  road  to  cross  Obsidian  Creek  to  the  cabin. 
A  glance  back  before  I  entered  the  trees  revealed 
Wade  reeling  drunkenly  from  side  to  side,  with  Carr 
hovering  near  to  catch  him  when  he  fell. 

A  large  fir  log  spanned  the  deep  half-frozen  pool 
beyond  which  stood  the  half -snow-buried  cabin.    The 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     51 

near  bank  was  several  feet  higher  than  the  far,  so 
that  the  log  sloped  downward  at  a  sharp  angle. 
Since,  on  our  outward  trip,  we  had  crossed  success- 
fully by  coasting  down  the  snow-covered  top  of  the 
log,  I  assumed  that  the  feat  might  be  performed 
again,  especially  as  I  was  far  more  adept  of  the  ski 
now  than  then.  But  I  failed  to  reckon  on  the  soft- 
ening the  snow  had  undergone  in  the  elapsed  fort- 
night. Half-way  over  the  whole  right  side  of  the 
slushy  cap  sliced  off  and  let  me  flounder  down  into 
the  waist-deep  pool. 

Wade,  so  Carr  says,  seemed  to  sense  instantly  the 
meaning  of  the  wild  yell  that  surged  up  from  the 
creek,  and  the  realization  of  the  glad  fact  that  his  tor- 
mentor had  come  a  cropper  at  the  log  acted  like  a 
galvanic  shock  to  revive  his  all-but-spent  energies. 
I  had  just  got  my  head  above  the  slushy  ice  and 
started  cutting  loose  my  ski  thongs  when  he  appeared 
on  the  bank;  above.  There  was  triumph  in  his  fa- 
tigue-drawn visage,  but  no  mirth.  Such  was  the  in- 
tensity of  his  eagerness  to  speak  that  for  a  few  mo- 
ments the  gush  of  words  jammed  in  his  throat  and 
throttled  coherence.  Then  out  it  came,  short,  sharp 
and  to  the  point. 

"Now,  gol  dern  ye — ^what  d'ye  think  o'  God  now?" 
was  aU  he  said.     Then  he  kicked  out  of  one  of  his 


52         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ski  and  reached  it  down  for  me  to  climb  out  by.  We 
did  not,  nor  shall,  resume  the  argument.  The  man 
is  too  terribly  in  earnest.  He  has  the  same  spirit — 
with  the  reverse  English  on  it,  of  course — that  I  had 
taken  for  granted  had  died  with  the  early  martyrs. 

Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  April  25. 

The  outside  world  of  ordinary  people  has  pushed  in 
and  taken  possession  of  Fort  Yellowstone  in  the  fort- 
night since  I  left  here,  and  the  invasion  of  the  rest  of 
the  Park  will  speedily  follow.  Two  hundred  labourers 
for  road  work  and  the  first  installment  of  the  hotel  help 
arrived  last  night  and  today  they  are  swarming  over 
the  formations,  gaping  into  the  depths  of  the  springs, 
and  setting  nails  and  horseshoes  to  coat  and  crust  in 
the  mineral-charged  water  as  it  trickles  down  the  ter- 
races. Irish  and  Swedes  predominate  among  both 
waitresses  and  shovel-wielders,  and  as  they  flock 
about,  open-mouthed  with  wonder  and  chattering  at 
the  tops  of  their  voices,  they  remind  one  of  a  throng 
of  immigrants  just  off  the  steamer.  More  of  the 
same  kind  are  due  today,  and  still  more  tomorrow. 
Then,  worst  of  all,  in  another  week  will  come  the 
tourists.  But  Lob,  the  good  god  of  the  snows  and  all 
his  works  will  be  gone  by  then,  thank  heaven,  and  so 
shall  I.  Today  there  has  come  a  letter  from  "Yan- 
kee Jim"  stating  that  he  has  located  a  boat  which  he 


HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  LOW  LIGHTS     53 

reckons  will  do  for  a  start  down  the  Yellowstone. 
He  fails  to  say  what  he  reckons  it  will  do  after  it 
starts,  but  I  shall  doubtless  know  more  on  that  score 
at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  days. 


CHAPTER  IV 

RUNNING  "YANKEE  JIM's  CANYON" 

Thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  before  the  railway  came, 
"Yankee  Jim"  held  the  gate  to  Yellowstone  Park 
very  much  as  Horatius  held  the  bridge  across  the 
Tiber.  Or  perhaps  it  was  more  as  St.  Peter  holds 
the  gate  to  heaven.  Horatius  stopped  all-comers, 
while  Jim,  like  St.  Peter,  passed  all  whom  he  deemed 
worthy — ^that  is  to  say,  those  able  to  pay  the  toll. 
For  the  old  chap  had  graded  a  road  over  the  rocky 
cliffs  hemming  in  what  has  since  been  called  "Yankee 
Jim's  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone,"  and  this  would- 
be  Park  tourists  were  permitted  to  travel  at  so  much 
per  head.  As  there  was  no  other  road  into  the  Pkrk 
in  the  early  days,  Jim  established  more  or  less  inti- 
mate contact  with  all  visitors,  both  going  and  com- 
ing. As  there  were  several  spare  rooms  in  his  com- 
fortable cabin  home  at  the  head  of  the  Canyon,  many, 
like  Kipling,  stopped  over  for  a  few  days  to  enjoy 
the  fishing.  The  fishing  never  disappointed  them, 
and  neither  did  Jim. 

But  people  found  Jim  interesting  and  likable  for 
very  diverse  reasons — that  became  plain  to  me  before 

54 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON  "  55 

ever  I  met  the  delicious  old  character  and  was  able  to 
form  an  opinion  of  my  own.  A  city  official  of  Spo- 
kane who  had  fished  at  Jim's  canyon  sometime  in  the 
nineties  characterized  him  to  me  as  the  most  luridly 
picturesque  liar  in  the  North-west.  A  few  days  later  a 
fairly  well  known  revivalist,  who  shared  my  seat  on 
the  train  to  Butte,  averred  that  "Yankee  Jim"  was 
one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  saintly  characters  he 
ever  expected  to  meet  outside  of  heaven.  This  same 
divergence  of  opinion  I  found  to  run  through  all  the 
accounts  of  those  who  had  written  of  Jim  in  connec- 
tion with  their  Park  visits.  He  had  undoubtedly 
poured  some  amazingly  bloodthirsty  stories  into  the 
ready  ears  of  the  youthful  Kipling  when  the  latter, 
homeward  bound  from  India,  visited  the  Yellowstone 
in  the  late  eighties.  Some  hint  of  these  yarns  is 
given  in  the  second  volume  of  "From  Sea  to  Sea." 
Yet  it  could  not  have  been  much  earlier  than  this 
that  Bob  Ingersoll  and  Jim  struck  sparks,  when  the 
famous  orator  endeavoured  to  expound  his  atheistic 
doctrines  on  the  lecture  platform  in  Livingston.  And 
the  witty  Bob  admitted  that  on  this  occasion  he  found 
himself  more  preached  against  than  preaching. 

It  remained  for  the  Sheriff  of  Plark  County,  whom 
I  met  in  Livingston  on  my  way  to  the  Park,  to  reveal 
the  secret  spring  of  Jim's  dual  personality.  "It  all 
depends  upon  whether  old  'Yankee'  is  drinking  or 

/ 


56         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

not,"  he  said.  "He  puts  in  on  an  average  of  about 
five  days  lapping  up  corn  juice  and  telling  the  whop- 
pingest  lies  ever  incubated  on  the  Yellowstone  and  ten 
days  neutralizing  the  effects  of  them  by  talking  and 
living  religion.  Latterly  he's  been  more  and  more 
inclining  to  spiritualism  and  clairvoyance.  Tells  you 
what  is  going  to  happen  to  you.  Rather  uncanny, 
some  of  the  stuff  he  gets  off ;  but  on  the  whole  a  young 
fellow  like  you  that's  looking  for  copy  will  find  him 
to  pan  out  better  when  the  black  bottle's  setting  on 
the  table  and  the  talk  runs  to  Injun  atrocities.  But 
you're  sure  to  get  spirits  in  any  event — if  old  'Yankee' 
isn't  pouring  'em  he'll  be  talking  with  'em." 

"Spirits  are  good  in  any  form,"  I  said,  nodding 
gravely  and  crooking  a  finger  at  the  bar-keeper  of 
the  old  Albermarle;  "but — yes — ^without  doubt  the 
black  bottle  promises  fcetter  returns  from  my  stand- 
point." 

But  it  was  not  to  be,  either  sooner  or  later.  Silver 
of  beard  and  of  hair  and  lamb-gentle  of  eye,  old  *  Yan- 
kee' fairly  swam  in  an  aura  of  benevolence  when  I 
dropped  in  upon  him  a  couple  of  days  later — and  the 
table  was  bare.  He  raised  his  hands  in  holy  horror 
when  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  Injun  fighting  stories, 
and  especially  of  the  tortures  he  had  seen  and  had  in- 
flicted. He  admitted  that  such  stories  had  been  at- 
tributed to  him,  but  couldn't  imagine  how  they  had 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON  "     57 

got  started.  He  had  lived  with  the  Crows  and  the 
Bannocks,  it  was  true,  but  only  as  a  friend  and  a 
man  of  peace,  never  as  a  warrior.  Far  from  ever 
having  been  even  a  passive  spectator  of  torture,  he 
had  always  exerted  himself  to  prevent,  or  at  least 
to  minimise  it.  And  he  flattered  himself  that  his  ef- 
forts along  this  line  had  not  been  without  success. 
He  felt  that  no  village  in  which  he  had  lived  but  had 
experienced  the  civilizing  effect  of  his  presence. 

Of  course  all  this  was  terribly  disappointing  to  a 
youth  who  had  read  of  the  hair-raising  exploits  of 
"Yankee  Jim,  the  White  Chief,"  in  yellow-backed 
shockers,  and  who  had  looked  forward  for  weeks  to 
hearing  from  his  thin,  hard  lips  the  story  of  the  burn- 
ing of  the  squaw  at  the  stake,  immortalized  by  Kip- 
ling. Forewarned,  however,  that  it  was  something 
like  ten  to  five  against  my  stumbling  upon  the  felici- 
tude  of  a  black-bottle  regime,  I  philosophically  de- 
cided to  go  ahead  with  my  ski  trip  through  the  Park 
on  the  chance  that  the  process  of  the  seasons  might 
bring  me  better  luck  on  my  return.  After  inducing 
Jim  to  undertake  either  to  find  or  to  build  me  a  boat 
suitable  for  my  contemplated  down-river  trip,  I 
pushed  on  to  Fort  Yellowstone. 

Whether  the  sign  of  the  black  bottle  wheeled  into 
the  ascendant  according  to  calendar  reckoning  during 
the  three  weeks  of  my  absence  I  never  learned.     Cer- 


58         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

tainly  there  was  no  sign  of  it  either  above  or  below 
the  horizon  on  my  return.  Jim  was  more  benevolent 
than  ever,  and  also  (so  he  assured  me  almost  at  once) 
in  direct  communication  with  his  "little  friends  up 
thar."  He  tried  hard  to  dissuade  me  from  tackling 
the  river,  urging  that  a  fine  upstanding  young  fel- 
ler like  myself  ought  to  spend  his  life  doing  good  to 
others  rather  than  going  outer  his  way  to  do  harm 
to  hisself .  I  chaffed  him  into  relinquishing  that  line 
by  asking  him  if  he  was  afraid  I  was  going  to  bump 
the  edges  off  some  of  his  canyon  scenery.  Finally 
he  consented  to  take  me  up-river  to  where  an  aban- 
doned boat  he  had  discovered  was  located,  but  only 
on  condition  I  should  try  to  get  another  man  to  help 
me  run  the  Canyon.  He  said  he  would  give  what 
help  he  could  from  the  bank,  but  didn't  care  to  expose 
his  old  bones  to  the  chance  of  a  wetting.  He  thought 
"Buckskin  Jim"  Cutler,  who  owned  a  ranch  nearby, 
might  be  willing  to  go  with  me  as  far  as  Livingston. 
He  was  not  sure  that  Cutler  had  run  the  Canyon,  but 
in  any  event  he  knew  it  foot  by  foot,  and  would  be 
of  great  help  in  letting  the  boat  down  with  ropes  at 
the  bad  places. 

We  found  the  craft  we  sought  about  a  mile  up- 
stream, where  it  had  been  abandoned  at  the  edge  of 
an  eddy  at  the  last  high-water.  It  was  high  and  dry 
on  the  rocks,  and  the  now  rapidly  rising  river  had 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  59 

some  ten  or  twelve  feet  to  go  before  reaching  the 
careened  hull.  Plain  as  it  was  that  neither  boat-builder 
nor  even  carpenter  had  had  a  hand  in  its  construc- 
tion, there  was  still  no  possible  doubt  of  its  tremen- 
dous strength  arid  capacity  to  withstand  punishment. 
Jim  was  under  the  impression  that  the  timbers  and 
planking  from  a  wrecked  bridge  had  been  drawn 
upon  in  building  it.  That  boat  reminded  me  of  the 
pictures  in  my  school  history  of  the  Merrimac,  and 
later,  on  my  first  visit  to  the  Nile,  the  massive  Temple 
of  Karnak  reminded  me  of  that  boat. 

Jim  said  that  a  homesick  miner  at  Aldridge  had 
built  this  fearful  and  wonderful  craft  with  the  idea 
of  using  it  to  return  to  his  family  in  Hickman,  Ken- 
tucky. He  had  bade  defiance  to  the  rapids  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone with  the  slogan  "HICKMAN  OR  BUST." 
The  letters  were  still  discernible  in  tarry  basrelief. 
So  also  the  name  on  bow  and  stern.  (Or  was  it  stern 
and  bow?  I  was  never  quite  sure  which  was  which.) 
Kentucky  Mule  he  had  called  it,  but  I  never  knew  why 
till  years  later.     And  sorry  I  was  I  ever  learned,  too. 

The  fellow  was  lacking  in  heart,  Jim  said.  He  had 
run  no  rapids  to  speak  of  in  the  Mule,  and  if  she  had 
hit  any  rocks  in  the  five  or  six  miles  of  comparatively 
open  water  above  she  had  doubtless  nosed  them  out 
of  the  way.  The  principal  trouble  appeared  to  have 
been  that  she  preferred  to  progress  on  her  side  or 


60         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

on  her  back  rather  than  right  side  up.  This  had 
caused  her  to  fill  with  water,  and  that,  while  appar- 
ently not  affecting  her  buoyancy  greatly,  had  made 
her  cabin  uncomfortable.  Her  owner  abandoned  her 
just  as  soon  as  she  could  be  brought  to  bank,  selling 
what  was  salvable  of  his  outfit  and  leaving  the  rest. 
What  Jim  complained  of  was  the  chap's  failure  to 
live  up  to  his  slogan.  Nothing  had  busted  except  his 
nerve.  He  hoped  that  in  case  I  did  push  off  I 
wouldn't  disgrace  myself — and  him,  who  was  sponsor- 
ing me,  so  to  speak — by  not  keeping  going.  Old 
Jim  had  good  sound  basic  instincts.  No  doubt  about 
that. 

Working  with  ax  and  crowbar,  we  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  knocking  off  the  cabin  of  what  had  been 
intended  for  a  houseboat,  leaving  behind  a  half -un- 
decked scow.  It  was  about  twenty-five  feet  in 
length,  with  a  beam  of  perhaps  eight  feet.  The  in- 
side of  this  hull  was  revealed  as  braced  and  double- 
braced  with  railroad  ties,  while  at  frequent  intervals 
along  the  water  lines  similar  timbers  had  been  spiked, 
evidently  for  the  purpose  of  absorbing  the  impact  of 
rocks  and  cliffs.  She  was  plainly  unsinkable  what- 
ever side  was  upward,  but  as  it  was  my  idea  to  bal- 
last her  in  an  endeavour  to  maintain  an  even  keel, 
I  went  over  her  caulking  of  tarry  rags  in  the  hope  of 
reducing  leakage  to  a  minimum.     We  also  hewed  out 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  61 

and  rigged  a  clumsy  stern-sweep  for  steering  pur- 
poses, and  it  was  my  intention  to  have  a  lighter  one 
at  the  bow  in  the  event  I  was  able  to  ship  a  crew  to 
man  it.  I  didn't  care  a  lot  for  looks  at  this  juncture 
as  I  was  going  to  rebuild  the  Mule  at  Livingston  in 
any  case. 

With  the  aid  of  a  couple  of  chaps  from  a  neighbour- 
ing ranch,  we  launched  her  down  a  runaway  of  Cot- 
tonwood logs  into  the  rising  back-current  of  the  eddy. 
It  was  not  yet  sunset,  so  there  was  still  time  to  stow 
a  heavy  ballasting  of  nigger-head  boulders  before 
dark.  Water  came  in  for  a  while,  but  gradually 
stopped  as  the  dry  pine  swelled  with  the  long-denied 
moisture.  She  still  rode  high  after  receiving  all  of  a 
thousand  pounds  of  rocks,  but  as  I  did  not  want  to  re- 
duce her  freeboard  too  much  I  let  it  go  at  that.  She 
was  amazingly  steady  withal,  so  that  I  could  stand 
on  either  rail  without  heaving  her  down  more  than 
an  inch  or  two.  She  looked  fit  to  ram  the  Rock 
of  Gibraltar,  let  alone  the  comparatively  fragile 
banks  and  braes  of  "Yankee  Jim's  Canyon." 
Never  again  has  it  been  my  lot  to  ship  in  so  staunch 
a  craft. 

Returning  at  dusk  to  Jim's  cabin,  we  had  word  that 
"Buckskin  Jim"  Cutler  was  away  from  home  and  not 
expected  back  for  several  days.  That  ended  my 
search  for  a  crew,  as  there  appeared  to  be  no  other 


62         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

eligible  candidates.  Of  "Buckskin  Jim"  I  was  not 
to  hear  for  twenty  years,  when  it  chanced  that  he  was 
again  recommended  to  me  as  the  best  available  river- 
man  on  the  upper  Yellowstone.  How  that  grizzled 
old  pioneer  fought  his  last  battle  with  the  Yellow- 
stone on  the  eve  of  my  pyush-off  from  Livingston  for 
New  Orleans  I  shall  tell  in  proper  sequence. 

Jim  insisted  on  casting  my  "horryscoop"  that  night, 
just  to  give  me  an  idea  how  things  were  going  to 
shape  for  the  next  week  or  two.  Going  into  a  dark 
room  that  opened  off  the  kitchen,  he  muttered  away 
for  some  minutes  in  establishing  communication  with 
his  "little  friends  up  thar."  Finally  he  called  me  in, 
closed  the  door,  took  my  hand  and  talked  balderdash 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more.  I  made  note  in 
my  diary  of  only  three  of  the  several  dozen  things  he 
told  me.  One  was:  "Young  man,  you  have  the 
sweetest  mother  in  all  the  world";  another:  "I  see  you 
struggling  in  the  water  beside  a  great  black  boat"; 
and  the  third :  "You  will  meet  a  dark  woman,  with  a 
scowling  face,  to  whom  you  will  become  much  at- 
tached." 

Now  that  "sweetest  mother"  stuff  was  ancient  stock 
formula  of  the  fortune-telling  faker,  and  considering 
what  Jim  knew  of  my  immediate  plans  it  hardly 
seemed  that  he  needed  to  get  in  touch  with  his  "little 
friends  up  thar"  to  know  that  there  was  more  than 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  63 

an  even  break  that  I  was  going  to  be  doing  some  floun- 
dering around  a  big  black  boat ;  but  how  in  the  deuce 
did  the  old  rascal  know  that  I  was  going  to  meet  the 
one  and  only  "Calamity  Jane"  the  following  week 
in  Livingston? 

Jim  was  bubbling  with  reminiscence  when  he  came 
out  of  his  averred  trance,  but  only  in  a  gentle  and 
benevolent  vein.  He  claimed  that  he  was  able  to 
prove  tlfat  Curley,  the  Crow  Scout,  was  not  a  real 
survivor  of  the  Custer  massacre,  but  only  witnessed 
a  part  of  the  battle  from  concealment  in  a  nearby 
coulee.  When  I  pressed  him  for  details,  however,  he 
seemed  to  become  suspicious,  and  switched  off  to  a 
rather  mild  version  of  his  meeting  with  Bob  Inger- 
solL 

"Bob  and  his  family  stopped  a  whole  day  with  me," 
he  said,  "and  we  got  to  be  great  friends.  His  girls 
came  right  out  here  into  this*  kitchen  where  you  are 
sitting  now  and  helped  me  wash  the  dishes.  They 
was  calling  me  *Uncle  Jim'  before  they  had  been  here 
an  hour.  Well,  the  people  down  there  persuaded 
Bob  to  give  a  lecture  in  Livingston,  and  I  drove  down 
the  whole  forty  miles  to  hear  it.  When  the  lecture 
was  over  Bob  came  up  to  me  in  the  Albermarle  and 
asked  me  what  I  thought  of  it.  *Mr.  Ingersoll,'  said 
I,  *I  don't  like  to  tell  you.'  'I  like  a  man  that  speaks 
his  mind,'  says  he;  'go  on.'     'Well,  Mr.  Ingersoll,' 


01         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

said  I,  *I  think  you're  making  a  grevious  mistake  in 
standing  there  and  hurting  the  feelings,  and  shaking 
the  faith,  of  almost  the  whole  audience,  just  for  the 
sake  of  the  one  or  two  as  thinks  as  you  do.'  At  first 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  come  back  at  me,  but  all 
of  a  sudden  he  laughed  right  out  in  his  jolly  way, 
and  took  my  arm  and  said,  *Mr.  George,  let's  have 
a  drink.'  Bob,  in  spite  of  his  pernishus  doctrines, 
was  the  most  lovable  man  I  ever  met." 

Now  this  was  a  very  different  account  of  the  clash 
from  the  one  I  had  heard  in  Livingston.  There  I 
was  assured  that  the  debate  took  place  at  the  Albe- 
marle bar  about  midnight,  and  that  Jim  had  Bob's 
hide  on  the  fence  at  the  end  of  five  minutes  of  verbal 
pyrotechnics.  But  it  was  characteristc  of  Jim  that 
he  would  neither  boast  nor  talk  of  Injuns  during  his 
non-drinking  periods.  Doubtless,  therefore,  he  was 
far  from  doing  himself  justice  in  relating  the  IngersoU 
episode.  I  surely  would  like  to  have  heard  it  when 
the  sign  of  the  black  bottle  was  in  the  ascendant. 

Jim  admitted  a  clear  remembrance  of  Kipling's 
visit,  but  was  chary  of  speaking  of  it,  doubtless  on 
account  of  the  squaw- at-the-stake  story.  (His  atroc- 
ity yarns  troubled  him  more  than  any  other  when 
they  came  home  to  roost,  so  they  assured  me  in  Liv- 
ingston.)    Of  Roscoe  Conkling  his  impressions  were 


'^YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  65 

not  friendly,  even  in  the  benevolence  of  his  present 
mood.  "Conkling  caught  the  biggest  fish  a  tourist 
ever  caught  in  the  Canyon,"  he  said.  "He  was  a 
great  hand  with  a  rod,  but,  in  my  candid  opinion, 
greatly  over-rated  as  a  public  man.  He  had  the 
nerve  to  cheat  me  out  of  the  price  of  a  case  of  beer. 
Ordered  it  for  a  couple  of  coachloads  of  his  friends 
and  then  drove  off  without  paying  for  it.  Yes,  pos- 
sibly a  mistake;  but  these  politicians  are  slippery 
cusses  at  the  best." 

Our  plan  of  operation  for  the  morrow  was  some- 
thing like  this:  Bill  and  Herb,  the  neighbouring 
ranchers,  were  to  go  up  and  help  me  push  off,  while 
Jim  went  down  to  the  first  fall  at  the  head  of  the 
Canyon  to  be  on  hand  to  pilot  me  through.  If  I 
made  the  first  riffle  all  right,  I  was  to  try  to  hold  up 
the  boat  in  an  eddy  until  Jim  could  amble  down  to 
the  second  fall  and  stand-by  to  signal  me  my  course 
into  that  one  in  turn.  And  so  on  down  through. 
Once  out  of  the  Canyon  there  were  no  bad  rapids 
above  Livingston.  I  was  to  take  nothing  with  me 
save  my  camera.  My  bags  were  to  remain  in  Jim's 
cabin  until  he  had  seen  me  pass  from  sight  below  the 
Canyon.  Then  he  was  to  return,  flag  the  down  train 
from  Cinnabar,  and  send  the  stuff  on  to  me  at  Living- 
ston.    Looking  back  on  it  from  the  vantage  of  a 


66        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

number  of  years'  experience  with  rough  water,  that 
decision  to  leave  the  luggage  to  come  on  by  train  was 
the  only  intelligent  feature  of  the  whole  plan. 

Steering  a  boat  in  swift  water  with  any  kind  of 
a  stern  oar  is  an  operation  demanding  a  skill  only  to 
be  acquired  by  long  practice.  For  a  greenhorn  to 
try  to  throw  over  the  head  of  a  craft  like  Kentucky 
Mule  was  about  comparable  to  swinging  an  elephant 
by  the  tail.  This  fact,  which  it  took  me  about  half  a 
minute  of  pulHng  and  tugging  to  learn,  did  not  bother 
me  a  whit  however.  I  felt  sure  the  Mule  was  equal 
to  meeting  the  Canyon  walls  strength  for  strength, 
I  knew  I  had  considerable  endurance  as  a  swimmer, 
and  I  was  fairly  confident  that  a  head  that  had  sur- 
vived several  seasons  of  old  style  mass-play  football 
ought  not  to  be  seriously  damaged  by  the  rocks  of 
the  Yellowstone.  Well,  I  was  not  right — only  lucky. 
Not  one  of  the  considerations  on  which  my  confidence 
was  based  really  weighed  the  weight  of  a  straw  in  my 
favour.  That  I  came  out  at  the  lower  end  compara- 
tively unscathed  was  luck,  pure  luck.  Subsequently 
I  paid  dearly  for  my  initial  success  in  running  rapids 
like  a  bull  at  a  gate.  In  the  long  run  over-confidence 
in  running  rough  water  is  about  as  much  of  an  as- 
set as  a  millstone  tied  round  the  neck.  Humility  is 
the  proper  thing ;  humility  and  a  deep  distrust  of  the 
wild  beast  into  whose  jaws  you  are  poking  your  head. 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  67 

As  I  swung  round  the  bend  above  the  head  of  the 
Canyon  I  espied  old  Jim  awaiting  my  coming  on  a 
rocky  coign  of  vantage  above  the  fall.  A  girl  in  a 
gingham  gown  had  dism'ounted  from  a  calico  pony 
and  was  climbing  up  to  join  us.  With  fore-blown  hair 
and  skirt  she  cut  an  entrancing  silhouette  against  the 
sun-shot  morning  sky.  I  think  the  presence  of  that 
girl  had  a  deal  to  do  with  the  impending  disaster,  for 
I  would  never  have  thought  of  showing  off  if  none 
but  Jim  had  been  there.  But  something  told  me  that 
the  exquisite  creature  could  not  but  admire  the  sang 
froid  of  a  youth  who  would  let  his  boat  drift  while 
he  stood  up  and  took  a  picture  of  the  thundering 
cataract  over  which  it  was  about  to  plunge.  And  so 
I  did  it — just  that.  Then,  waving  my  camera  above 
my  head  to  attract  Jim's  attention  to  the  act,  I  tossed 
it  ashore.  That  was  about  the  only  sensible  thing 
I  did  in  my  run  through  the  Canyon. 

As  I  resumed  my  s-teering  oar  I  saw  that  Jim  was 
gesticulating  wildly  in  an  apparent  endeavour  to  at- 
tract my  attention  to  a  comparatively  rock-free  chute 
down  the  left  bank.  Possibly  if  I  had  not  wasted 
valuable  time  displaying  my  sang  froid  I  might  have 
worried  the  Mule  over  in  that  direction,  and  headed 
right  for  a  clean  run  through.  As  it  was,  the  con- 
trary brute  simply  took  the  bit  in  her  teeth  and  went 
waltzing  straight  for  the  reef  of  barely  submerged 


68         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

rock  at  the  head  of  the  steeply  cascading  pitch  of 
white  water.  Broadside  on  she  sunk  into  the  hollow 
of  a  refluent  wave,  struck  crashingly  fore  and  aft,  and 
hung  trembling  while  the  full  force  of  the  current 
of  the  Yellowstone  surged  against  her  up-stream  gun- 
wale. 

Impressions  of  what  followed  are  considerably  con- 
fused in  my  mind,  but  it  seems  to  me  things  hap- 
pened in  something  hke  the  following  order:  The 
pressure  on  her  upper  side  heeled  the  Mule  far  over, 
so  that  her  boulder  ballast  began  to  shift  and  spill 
out  at  the  same  time  the  refluent  wave  from  below 
began  pouring  across  the  down-stream  gunwale.  The 
more  she  heeled  the  more  ballast  she  lost  and  the 
more  water  she  shipped.  Fortunately  most  of  the 
boulders  had  gone  before  the  pin  of  the  stern-sweep 
broke  and  precipitated  me  after  the  ballast.  The  few 
niggerheads  that  did  come  streaming  in  my  wake 
were  smooth  and  round  and  did  not  seem  to  be  f  alhng 
very  fast  when  they  bumped  my  head  and  shoulders. 
Certainly  I  hardly  felt  them  at  the  time,  nor  was 
I  much  marked  from  them  afterwards. 

Sticking  to  my  oar  I  came  up  quickly  and  went 
bobbing  down  the  undulating  stream  of  the  rapid, 
kissing  off  a  rock  now  and  then  but  never  with  sharp 
impact.  I  had  gone  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  when 
the  lightened  boat  broke  loose  above  and  started  to 


"YANKEE  JIM"  WITH  A  TROUT  FROM  HIS   CANYON    {AboVe) 

JUST  ABOVE  THE  FIRST  DROP  IN  "yANKEE  JIM's"   CANYON    (JBelow) 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  69 

follow  me.  Right  down  the  middle  of  the  riffle  she 
came,  wallowing  mightily  but  shipping  very  little  ad- 
ditional water.  Holding  my  oar  under  one  arm  and 
paddling  lightly  against  the  current  with  my  other, 
I  waited  till  the  Mule  floundered  abreast  of  me  and 
clambered  aboard.  She  was  about  a  third  full  of 
water,  but  as  the  weight  of  it  hardly  compensated 
for  the  rocks  dumped  overboard  she  was  riding  con- 
siderably higher  than  before,  though  much  less  stead- 

iiy- 

Looking  back  up-stream  as  the  reeling  Mule  swung 
in  the  current,  I  saw  Jim,  with  the  Gingham  Girl 
in  his  wake,  ambling  down  the  bank  at  a  broken- 
kneed  trot  in  an  ^apparent  endeavour  to  head  me  to 
the  next  fall  as  per  schedule.  Poor  old  chapt  He 
was  never  a  hundred-to-one  shot  in  that  race  now  that 
the  Mule  had  regained  her  head  and  was  running 
away  down  mid-channel  regardless  of  obstacles.  He 
stumbled  and  went  down  even  as  I  watched  him  with 
the  tail  of  my  eye.  The  Gingham  Girl  pulled  him  to 
his  feet  and  he  seemed  to  be  leaning  heavily  against  her 
fine  shoulder  as  the  Mule  whisked  me  out  of  sight 
around  the  next  bend.  That  was  the  last  I  ever  saw 
of  either  of  them.  Jim,  I  understand,  died  some 
years  ago,  and  the  Gingham  Girl.  ,  .  .  Dear  me,  she 
must  be  forty  herself  by  now  and  the  mother  of  not 
less  than  eight.     Even  ten  is  considered  a  conserva- 


70        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

tive  family  up  that  way.  They  are  not  race  suicidists 
on  the  upper  Yellowstone. 

With  the  steering  oar  permanently  unshipped  there 
was  more  difficulty  than  ever  in  exercising  any  con- 
trol over  the  balkiness  of  the  stubborn  Mule,  After 
a  few  ineffectual  attempts  I  gave  up  trying  to  do 
anything  with  the  oar  and  confined  my  navigation  to 
fending  off  with  a  cottonwood  pike-pole.  This 
really  helped  no  more  than  the  oar,,  so  it  was  rather  by 
good  luck  than  anything  else  that  the  Mule  hit  the 
next  pitch  head-on  and  galloped  down  it  with  consid- 
erable smartness.  When  she  reeled  through  an- 
othei*  rapid  beam-on  without  shipping  more  than  a 
bucket  or  two  of  green  water  I  concluded  she  was 
quite  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  and  so  sat  down  to 
enjoy  the  scenery.  I  was  still  lounging  at  ease  when 
we  came  to  a  sharp  right-angling  notch  of  a  bend 
where  the  full  force  of  the  current  was  exerted  to 
push  a  sheer  wall  of  red-brown  cliff  out  of  the  way. 
Not  unnaturally,  the  Mule  tried  to  da  the  same  thing. 
That  was  where  I  discovered  I  had  over-rated  her 
strength  of  construction. 

I  have  said  that  she  impressed  me  at  first  sight  as 
being  quite  capable  of  nosing  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar 
out  of  her  way.  This  optimistic  estimate  was  not 
borne  out.  That  little  patch  of  cliff  was  not  high 
enough  to  make  a  respectable  footstool  for  the  guard- 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  71 

ian  of  the  Mediterranean,  but  it  must  have  been 
quite  as  firmly  socketed  in  the  earth.  So  far  as  I 
could  see  it  budged  never  the  breadth  of  a  hair  when 
the  Mule,  driving  at  all  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour, 
crashed  into  it  with  the  shattering  force  of  a  bat- 
tering-ram. Indeed,  everything  considered,  it  speaks 
a  lot  for  her  construction  that  she  simply  telescoped 
instead  of  resolving  into  cosmic  star-dust.  Even  the 
telescoping  was  not  quite  complete.  Although  there 
were  a  number  of  loose  planks  and  timbers  floating 
in  her  wake,  the  hashed  mass  of  wood  that  backed 
soddenly  away  from  the  cliff  and  off  into  the  middle 
of  the  current  again  had  still  a  certain  seeming  of  a 
boat — that  is,  to  one  who  knew  what  it  was  intended 
for  in  the  first  place.  With  every  plank  started  or 
missing,  however,  water  had  entered  at  a  score  of 
places,  so  that  all  the  buoyancy  she  retained  was 
that  of  floating  wood. 

The  Mule  had  ceased  to  be  a  boat  and  become  a 
raft,  but  not  a  raft  constructed  on  scientific  princi- 
ples. The  one  most  desirable  characteristic  of  a  prop- 
erly built  raft  of  logs  is  its  stability.  It  is  almost 
impossible  to  upset.  The  remains  of  the  Mule  had 
about  as  much  stability  as  a  toe-dancer,  and  all  of  the 
capriciousness.  She  kept  more  or  less  right  side  up 
on  to  the  head  of  the  next  riffle  and  then  laid  down 
and  negotiated  the  undulating  waves  by  rolling. 


72         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

It  was  not  until  some  years  later,  if  I  remember 
aright,  that  stout  women  adopted  the  expedient  of 
rolling  to  reduce  weight.  The  Mule  was  evidently 
well  in  advance  of  the  times,  for  she  reduced  both 
weight  and  bulk  by  all  of  a  quarter  in  that  one  series 
of  rolls.  I  myself,  after  she  had  spilled  me  out  at 
the  head  of  the  riffle,  rode  through  on  one  of  her 
planks,  but  it  was  a  railroad  tie,  with  a  big  spike 
in  it,  that  rasped  me  over  the  ear  in  the  whirlpool  at 
the  foot. 

And  so  I  went  on  through  to  the  foot  of  "Yankee 
Jim's  Canyon."  In  the  smoother  water  I  clung  to  a 
tie,  plank  or  the  thinning  remnants  of  the  Mule  her- 
self. At  the  riffles,  to  avoid  another  clout  on  the  head 
from  the  spike-fanged  flotsam,  I  found  it  best  to 
swim  ahead  and  flounder  through  on  my  own.  I  was 
not  in  serious  trouble  at  any  time,  for  much  the  worst 
of  the  rapids  had  been  those  at  the  head  of  the  Can- 
yon. Had  I  been  really  hard  put  for  it,  there  were 
a  dozen  places  at  which  I  could  have  crawled  out. 
As  that  would  have  made  overtaking  the  3Iule  again 
somewhat  problematical,  I  was  reluctant  to  do  it. 
Also,  no  doubt,  I  was  influenced  by  the  fear  that  Jim 
and  the  Gingham  Girl  might  call  me  a  quitter. 

Beaching  what  I  must  still  call  the  Mule  on  a  bar 
where  the  river  fanned  out  in  the  open  valley  at  the 
foot  of  the  Canyon,  I  dragged  her  around  into  an 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  73 

eddy  and  finally  moored  her  mangled  remains  to  a 
friendly  cottonwood  on  the  left  bank.  Taking  stock 
of  damages,  I  found  that  my  own  scratches  and  bruises, 
like  Beauty,  were  hardly  more  than  skin  deep, 
while  the  Mule,  especially  if  her  remaining  spikes 
could  be  tightened  up  a  bit,  had  still  considerable 
rafting  potentialities.  As  the  day  was  bright  and 
warm  and  the  water  not  especially  cold,  I  decided  to 
make  way  while  the  sun  shone — to  push  on  as  far  to- 
ward Livingston  as  time  and  tide  and  my  dissolving 
craft  would  permit.     But  first  for  repairs. 

Crossing  a  flat  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of 
willow  and  cottonwood,  I  clambered  up  the  railway 
embankment  toward  a  point  where  I  heard  the  clank 
of  iron  and  the  voices  of  men  at  work.  The  momen- 
tary focus  of  the  section  gang's  effort  turned  out  to 
be  round  a  bend  from  the  point  where  I  broke  through 
to  the  right-of-way,  but  almost  at  my  feet,  lying  across 
the  sleepers,  was  a  heavy  strip  of  rusty  iron,  pierced 
at  even  intervals  with  round  holes.  Telling  myself 
that  I  might  well  go  farther  and  fare  worse  in  my 
quest  for  a  tool  to  drive  spikes  with,  I  snatched  it  up 
and  returned  to  the  river.  Scarcely  had  my  lusty 
blows  upon  the  Mule's  sagging  ribs  begun  to  re- 
sound, however,  than  a  great  commotion  broke  forth 
above,  which  presently  resolved  itself  into  mingled 
cursings  and  lamentations  in  strange  foreign  tongues. 


74        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Then  a  howling-mad  Irish  section-boss  came  crashing 
through  the  underbrush,  called  me  a  train-wrecker, 
grabbed  the  piece  of  iron  out  of  my  hand,  and,  shout- 
ing that  he  would  "sittle"  with  me  in  a  jiffy,  rushed 
back  to  the  embankment. 

The  fellow  seemed  to  attach  considerable  impor- 
tance to  that  strip  of  rusty  iron.  Why  this  was  I 
discovered  a  couple  of  minutes  later  when  I  found 
him  and  three  Italians  madly  bolting  it  to  the  loose 
ends  of  a  couple  of  rails  before  the  down-bound  train 
hove  in  sight  up  the  line. 

"I'll  lam  ye  to  steal  a  fish-plate,  ye  snakin'  spal- 
pheen,"  he  roared  as  the  train  thundered  by  and  dis- 
appeared around  the  bend. 

"I  didn't  steal  any  fish-plate,"  I  remonstrated  qua- 
veringly,  backing  off  down  the  track  as  the  irate  navvy 
advanced  upon  me  branidshing  a  three-foot  steel 
wrench;  "I  only  borrowed  a  piece  of  rusty  iron.  I 
didn't  see  any  fish-plate.  I  didn't  even  know  where 
your  lunch  buckets  are.  I  wish  I  did,  for  I've  just 
swum  through  the  Canyon  and  I'm  darned  hungry." 
Gad,  but  I  was  glad  the  Gingham  Gown  and  "Yan- 
kee Jim"  couldn't  see  me  then ! 

With  characteristic  Hibernian  suddenness,  the  bel- 
low of  rage  changed  to  a  guffaw  of  laughter.  "Sure 
an'  the  broth  o'  a  bhoy  thot  a  fish-plate  wuz  a  contryv- 
ance  fer  to  eat  off  uvl    An'  it's  jest  through  the  Can- 


"YANKEE  JIM'S  CANYON"  75 

yon  he's  swam!  An'  it's  hoongry  an'  wet  thot  he 
is  I  Be  jabbers  then,  we  won't  be  afther  murtherin' 
him  outright;  we'll  jest  let  him  go  back  to  the  river 
an'  dhrown  hisself  1"  Stip  lively,  ye  skulkin'  dagoes, 
an'  bring  out  the  loonch." 

And  so  while  I  sat  on  the  bank  quaffing  Dago  Red 
and  munching  garlic-stuffed  sausages,  Moike  and  his 
gang  of  Eyetalians  abandoned  their  four-mile  stretch 
of  the  Northern  Pacific  to  drive  more  spikes  in  the 
Mule's  bulging  sides  and  render  her  as  raft-shape  as 
possible  for  a  further  run.  The  boss  led  his. gang 
in  a  cheer  as  they  pushed  me  off  into  the  current,  and 
the  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  still  guffawing  mightily 
over  his  httle  fish-plate  joke.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
since  Mike  in  his  excitement  appeared  to  have  neg- 
lected to  send  out  a  flagman  when  he  discovered  his 
fish-plate  was  missing,  I  have  always  had  a  feeling 
that  the  northbound  train  that  morning  came  nearer 
than  I  did  to  being  wrecked  in  "Yankee  Jim's  Can- 
yon of  the  Yellowstone." 

The  rest  of  that  day's  run  was  more  a  matter  of 
chills  than  thrills,  especially  after  the  evening  shad- 
ows began  to  lengthen  and  the  northerly  wind  to 
strengthen.  The  Mule  repeated  her  roU-and-reduce 
tactics  every  time  she  came  to  a  stretch  of  white  water. 
There  were  only  three  planks  left  when  I  abandoned 
her  at  dusk,  something  over  twenty  miles  from  the  foot 


76         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

of  the  Canyon,  and  each  of  these  was  sprinkled  as 
thickly  with  spike-points  as  a  Hindu  fakir's  bed  of 
nails.  One  plank,  by  a  curious  coincidence,  was  the 
strake  that  had  orginally  borne  the  defiant  slogan, 
"HICKMAN  OR  BUST."  Prying  it  loose  from 
its  cumbering  mates,  I  shoved  it  gently  out  into  the 
current.  There  was  no  question  that  Kentucky  Mule 
was  busted,  but  it  struck  me  as  the  sporting  thing  to 
do  to  give  that  plank  a  fighting  chance  to  nose  its 
way  down  to  Hickman.  If  I  had  known  what  I 
learned  last  summer  I  should  not  have  taken  the  trou- 
ble. Hickman  has  had  more  "Kentucky  Mule"  than 
is  good  for  it  all  the  time;  also  a  huge  box  factory 
where  soft  pine  planks  are  cut  up  into  shooks.  The 
last  of  my  raft  deserved  a  better  fate.  I  hope  it 
stranded  on  the  way. 

Spending  the  night  with  a  hospitable  rancher,  I 
walked  into  Livingston  in  the  morning.  There  I 
found  my  bags  and  camera,  which  good  old  "Yankee 
Jim"  had  punctually  forwarded  by  the  train  I  had 
so  nearly  wrecked.  The  accompanying  pictures  of 
Jim  and  his  Canyon  are  from  the  roll  of  negatives 
in  the  kodak  at  the  time. 


CHAPTER  V 


"calamity  JANE^"* 


Thrilled  with  the  delights  of  swift-water  boating 
as  they  had  been  vouchsafed  to  me  in  running  the 
Mule  through  "Yankee  Jim's  Canyon,"  I  hastened  to 
make  arrangements  to  continue  my  voyage  imme- 
diately upon  arriving  in  Livingston.  A  capenter 
called  Sydney  Lamartine  agreed  to  build  me  a  skiff 
and  have  it  ready  at  the  end  of  three  days.  Hour  by 
hour  I  watched  my  argosy  grow,  and  then — on  the 
night  before  it  was  ready  to  launch — came  "Calam- 
ity." 

In  every  man's  life  there  is  one  event  that  tran- 
scends all  others  in  the  bigness  with  which  it  bulks  in 
his  memory.  This  is  not  necessarily  the  biggest 
thing  that  has  really  happened  to  him.  Usually,  in- 
deed, it  is  not.  It  is  simply  the  thing  that  impresses 
most  deeply  the  person  he  happens  to  be  at  the  time. 
The  thunderbolt  of  a  living,  breathing  "Calamity 
Jane"  striking  at  my  feet  from  a  clear  sky  is  my 
biggest  thing.  One  does  his  little  curtsey  to  a  lot  of 
queens,  real  and  figurative,  in  the  course  of  twenty 

years'  wandering,  but  not  the  most  regal  of  them  has 

77 


78        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

stirred  my  pulse  like  the  "Queen  of  the  Plains." 
Queens  of  Dance,  Queens  of  Song,  and  Queens  of 
real  kingdoms,  cannibalistic  and  otherwise,  there  have 
been,  but  only  one  "Queen  of  the  Rockies."  And 
this  was  not  because  "Calamity  Jane"  was  either 
young,  or  beautiful  or  good.  ( There  may  have  been 
a  time  when  she  was  young,  and  possibly  even  good, 
but  beautiful — never.)  So  far  as  my  own  heart- 
storm  was  concerned,  it  was  because  she  had  been  the 
heroine  of  that  saifron-hued  thriller  called  "The  Beau- 
tiful White  Devil  of  the  Yellowstone,"  the  which  I 
had  devoured  in  the  hay-mow  in  my  adolescence.  The 
fragrance  of  dried  alfalfa  brings  the  vision  of  "Calam- 
ity Jane"  before  my  eyes  even  to  this  day.  She 
is  the  only  flesh-and-blood  heroine  to  come  into  my 
life. 

My  initial  meeting  with  "Calamity"  was  charac- 
teristic. It  was  a  bit  after  midnight.  On  my  way 
home  to  the  old  Albemarle  to  bed  I  became  aware 
of  what  I  thought  was  a  spurred  and  chap-ed  cowboy 
in  the  act  of  embracing  a  lamp-post.  A  gruff  voice 
hailed  me  as  I  came  barging  by.  "Short  Pants  I"  it 
called;  "oh.  Short  Pants — can't  you  tell  a  lady  where 
she  lives?" 

"Show  me  where  the  lady  is  and  I'll  try,"  I  replied, 
edging  cautiously  in  toward  the  circle  of  golden  glow. 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  79 

"She's  me,  Short  Pants — Martha  Cannary — ^Mar- 
tha Burk,  better  known  as  'Calamity  Jane.' " 

"Ahl"  I  breathed,  and  again  "Ah  1"  Then:  "Sure, 
I'll  tell  you  where  you  live;  only  you'll  have  to  tell 
me  first."  And  thus  was  ushered  in  the  greatest  mo- 
ment of  my  life. 

"Calamity,"  it  appeared,  haS  arrived  from  Bozeman 
that  afternoon,  taken  a  room  over  a  saloon,  gone  out 
for  a  convivial  evening  and  forgotten  where  she  lived. 
She  was  only  sure  that  the  bar-keeper  of  the  saloon 
was  named  Patsy,  and  that  there  was  an  outside  stair- 
way up  to  the  second  story.  It  was  a  long  and 
devious  search,  not  so  much  because  there  was 
any  great  number  of  saloons  with  outside  stairways 
and  mixologists  called  Patsy,  as  because  every 
man  in  every  saloon  to  which  we  went  to  inquire 
greeted  "Calamity"  as  a  long-lost  mother  and  in- 
sisted on  shouting  the  house.  Then,  to  the  last  man, 
they  attached  themselves  to  the  search-party.  When 
we  did  locate  the  proper  place,  it  was  only  to  find  that 
"Calamity"  had  lost  her  room-key.  After  a  not-too- 
well-ordered  consultation,  we  passed  her  unprotest- 
ing  anatomy  in  through  a  window  by  means  of  a  fire- 
ladder  and  reckoned  our  mission  finished.  That  was 
the  proudest  night  on  which  I  am  able  to  look  back. 

When,  agog  with  delicious  excitement,  I  went  to 


80         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ask  after  Mrs.  Burk's  health  the  following  morning, 
I  found  her  smoking  a  cigar  and  cooking  breakfast. 
She  insisted  on  my  sharing  both,  but  I  compromised 
on  the  ham  and  eggs.  She  had  no  recollection  what- 
ever of  our  meeting  of  the  previous  evening,  yet 
greeted  me  as  "Short  Pants"  as  readily  as  ever.  This 
name,  later  contracted  to  "Pants,"  was  suggested  by 
my  omnipresent  checkered  knickers,  the  only  nether 
garment  I  possessed  at  the  time. 

The  "once-and-never-again  'Calamity  Jane,'  "  was 
about  fifty-five  years  of  age  at  this  time,  and  looked  it, 
or  did  not  look  it,  according  to  where  one  looked. 
Her  deeply-lined,  scowling,  sun-tanned  face  and  the 
mouth  with  its  missing  teeth  might  have  belonged  to 
a  hag  of  seventy.  The  rest  of  her — well,  seeing  those 
leather-clad  legs  swing  by  on  the  other  side  of  a  sign- 
board that  obscured  the  wrinkled  phiz,  one  might  well 
have  thought  they  belonged  to  a  thirty-year-old  cow- 
puncher  just  coming  into  town  for  his  night  to  howl. 
And  younger  even  than  her  legs  was  "Calamity's" 
heart.  Apropos  of  which  I  recall  confiding  to  Patsy, 
the  bar-keep,  that  she  had  the  heart  of  a  young  god 
Pan.  "Maybe  so,"  grunted  Patsy  doubtfully  (not 
having  had  a  classical  education  he  couldn't  be  quite 
sure,  of  course) ;  "in  any  case  she's  got  the  voice  of  an 
old  tin  pan."  Which  was  neither  gallant  nor  quite  fair 
to  "Calamity."    Her  voice  was  a  bit  cracked,  but  not 


^^^^^^B>        ^^^^^vlB^^H^r  1'        II  1        Mil 

"calamity  jane"  in  1885  (Above') 

1    FOUND    "calamity"     SMOKING    A    CIGAR    AND     COOKING    BREAKFAST 

{Below) 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  81 

so  badly  as  Patsy  had  tried  to  make  out.  Another 
thing:  that  black  scowl  between  her  brows  belied  the 
dear  old  girl.  There  was  really  nothing  saturnine 
about  her.  Hers  was  the  sunniest  of  souls,  and  the 
most  generous.  She  was  poor  all  her  life  from  giving 
away  things,  and  I  have  heard  that  her  last  illness  was 
contracted  in  nursing  some  poor  sot  she  found  in  a 
gutter. 

Naturally,  of  course,  after  a  decent  interval,  I 
blurted  out  to  "Calamity"  that  I  had  come  to  hear 
the  story  of  her  wonderful  life.  Right  gamely  did 
the  old  girl  come  through.  "Sure,  Pants,"  she  re- 
plied. "Just  run  down  and  rush  a  can  of  suds,  and 
I'll  rattle  off  the  whole  layout  for  you.  I'll  meet 
you  down  there  in  the  sunshine  by  those  empty  beer 
barrels." 

It  was  May,  the  month  of  the  brewing  of  the  fra- 
grant dark-brown  Bock.  Returning  with  a  gallon 
tin  pail  awash  to  the  gunnels,  I  found  "Calamity"  en- 
throned on  an  up-ended  barrel,  with  her  feet  comfort- 
ably braced  against  the  side  of  one  of  its  prostrate 
brothers.  Depositing  the  nectar  on  a  third  barrel  at 
her  side,  I  sank  to  my  ease  upon  a  soft  patch  of  lush 
spring  grass  and  budding  dandelions.  "Calamity" 
blew  a  mouth-hole  in  the  foam,  quaffed  deeply  of  the 
Bock,  wiped  her  lips  with  a  sleeve,  and  began  without 
further  preliminary: 


82        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

"My  maiden  name  was  Martha  Cannary.  Was 
born  in  Princeton,  Missouri,  May  first,  1848."  ,Then, 
in  a  sort  of  parenthesis:  "This  must  be  about  my 
birthday.  Pants.  Drink  to  the  health  of  the  Queen  of 
May,  kid."  I  stopped  chewing  dandelion,  lifted  the 
suds-crowned  bucket  toward  her,  muttered  "Many 
happy  Maytimes,  Queen,"  and  drank  deep.  Imme- 
diately she  resumed  with  "My  maiden  name  was 
Martha  Cannary,  etc."  .  .  .  "As  a  child  I  always  had 
a  fondness  for  adventure  and  especial  fondness  for 
horses,  which  I  began  to  ride  at  an  early  age  and  con- 
tinued to  do  so  until  I  became  an  expert  rider,  being 
able  to  ride  the  most  vicious  and  stubborn  horses. 

"In  1865  we  emigrated  from  our  home  in  Missouri 
by  the  overland  route  to  Virginia  City,  Montana. 
While  on  the  way  the  greater  part  of  my  time  was 
spent  in  hunting  along  with  the  men;  in  fact  I  was 
at  all  times  with  the  men  when  there  was  excitement 
and  adventure  to  be  had.  We  had  many  exciting 
times  fording  streams,  for  many  of  the  streams  on 
the  way  were  noted  for  quicksand  and  boggy  places. 
On  occasions  of  that  kind  the  men  would  usually  se- 
lect the  best  way  to  cross  the  streams,  myself  on  more 
than  one  occasion  having  mounted  my  pony  and 
swam  across  the  stream  several  times  merely  to  amuse 
myself  and  had  many  narrow  escapes;  but  as  pio- 
neers of  those  days  had  plenty  of  courage  we  over- 


'^CALAMITY  JANE"  83 

came  all  obstacles  and  reached  Virginia  City  in  safety. 

^'Mother  died  at  Blackfoot  in  1866,  where  we  bur- 
ied her.  My  father  died  in  Utah  in  1867,  after  which 
I  went  to  Fort  Bridger.  Remained  around  Fort 
Bridger  during  1868,  then  went  to  Piedmont,  Wyo- 
ming, with  U.  P.  railway.  Joined  General  Custer  as 
a  scout  at  Fort  Russell,  Wyoming,  in  1870.  Up  to 
this  time  I  had  always  worn  the  costume  of  my  sex. 
When  I  joined  Custer  I  donned  the  uniform  of  a 
soldier.  It  was  a  bit  awkward  at  first  but  I  soon  got 
to  be  perfectly  at  home  in  men's  clothes. 

"I  was  a  scout  in  the  Nez  Perce  outbreak  in  1872. 
In  that  war  Generals  Custer,  Miles,  Terry  and  Cook 
were  all  engaged.  It  was  in  this  campaign  I  was 
christened  'Calamity  Jane.'  It  was  on  Goose  Creek, 
Wyoming,  where  the  town  of  Sheridan  is  now  lo- 
cated. Captain  Egan  was  in  command  of  the  post. 
We  were  ordered  out  to  quell  an  uprising  of  In- 
dians, and  were  out  several  days,  had  numerous  skir- 
mishes during  which  six  of  the  soldiers  were  killed 
and  several  severely  wounded.  On  returning  to 
the  post  we  were  ambushed  about  a  mile  from  our 
destination.  When  fired  upon  Captain  Egan  was 
shot.  I  was  riding  in  advance  and  on  hearing  the 
firing  turned  in  my  saddle  and  saw  the  Captain  reel- 
ing in  his  saddle  as  though  about  to  fall.  I  turned 
my  horse  and  galloped  back  with  all  haste  to  his  side 


84         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

and  got  there  in  time  to  catch  him  as  he  was  falling. 
I  hfted  him  onto  my  horse  in  front  of  me  and  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  him  safely  to  the  fort.  Captain 
Egan  on  recovering  laughingly  said:  'I  name  you 
"Calamity  Jane,"  the  Heroine  of  the  Plains.'  I 
have  borne  that  name  up  to  the  present  time." 

Here,  little  dreaming  what  the  consequence  would 
be,  I  interrupted,  and  for  this  reason :  I  had  felt  that 
"Calamity"  had  been  doing  herself  scant  justice  all 
along,  but  in  the  "christening"  incident  her  matter- 
of-fact  recital  was  so  much  at  variance  with  the  facts 
as  set  down  in  "The  Beautiful  White  Devil  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone" that  I  had  to  protest.  "Excuse  me,  Mrs. 
Eurk,"  I  said,  "but  wasn't  that  officer's  name  Major 
Ficrcy  Darkleigh  instead  of  Egan?  And  didn't  you 
cry  *For  life  and  love!'  when  you  caught  his  reeling 
form?  And  didn't  you  shake  your  trusty  repeater 
and  shout  'To  hell  with  the  redskins!'  as  you  turned 
and  headed  for  the  fort?  And  didn't  you  ride  with 
your  reins  in  your  teeth,  the  Major  under  your  left 
arm  and  your  six-shooter  in  your  right  hand?  And 
when  you  had  laid  the  Major  safely  down  inside  the 
Fort,  didn't  he  breathe  softly,  "I  thank  thee  Jane 
from  the  bottom  of  a  grateful  heart.  No  arm  but 
thine  shall  ever  encircle  my  waist,  for  while  I  honour 
my  wife—'  " 

Here  "Calamity"  cut  in,  swearing  hard  and  point- 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  85 

edly,  so  hard  and  pointedly,  in  fact,  that  her  remarks 
may  not  be  quoted  verbatim  here.  The  gist  of  them 
was  that  "The  Beautiful  White  Devil  of  the  Yellow- 
stone" was  highy  coloured,  was  a  pack  of  blankety- 
blank  lies,  in  fact,  and  of  no  value  whatever  as  his- 
tory. I  realize  now  that  she  was  right,  of  course,  but 
that  didn't  soften  the  blow  at  the  time. 

Trying  to  resume  her  story,  "Calamity,"  after  grop- 
ing about  f alteringly  for  the  thread,  had  to  back  up 
again  and  start  with  "My  maiden  name  was  Martha 
Cannary."  She  was  in  a  Black  Hills  campaign 
against  the  Sioux  in  1875,  and  in  the  spring  of  '76  was 
ordered  north  with  General  Crook  to  join  Generals 
Miles,  Terry  and  Custer  at  the  Big  Horn.  A  ninety- 
mile  ride  with  dispatches  after  swimming  the  Platte 
brought  on  a  severe  illness,  and  she  was  sent  back  in 
General's  Crook's  ambulance  to  Fort  Fetterman. 
This  probably  saved  her  from  being  present  at  the 
massacre  of  the  Little  Big  Horn  with  Custer  and 
the  7th  Cavalry. 

"During  the  rest  of  the  summer  of  '76  I  was  a  pony 
express  rider,  carrying  the  U.  S.  mails  between  Dead- 
wood  and  Custer,  fifty  miles  over  some  of  the  rough- 
est trails  in  the  Black  Hills.  As  many  of  the  riders 
before  me  had  been  held  up  and  robbed  of  their  pack- 
ages, it  was  considered  the  most  dangerous  route  in 
the  Hills.    As  my  reputation  as  a  rider  and  quick  shot 


86         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

were  well  known  I  was  molested  very  little,  for  the 
toll-gatherers  looked  on  me  as  being  a  good  fellow  and 
they  knew  I  never  missed  my  mark. 

"My  friend  William  Hickock,  better  known  as 
as  *Wild  Bill,'  who  was  probably  the  best  revolver  shot 
that  ever  lived,  was  in  Deadwood  that  summer.  On 
the  second  of  August,  while  setting  at  a  gambling 
table  of  the  Bella  Union  Saloon,  he  was  shot  in  the 
back  of  the  head  by  the  notorious  Jack  McCall,  a  des- 
perado. I  was  in  Deadwood  at  the  time  and  on  hear- 
ing of  the  killing  made  my  way  at  once  to  the  scene 
of  the  shooting  and  found  that  my  best  friend  had 
been  killed  by  McCall.  I  at  once  started  to  look  for 
the  assassin  and  found  him  at  Shurdy's  butcher  shop 
and  grabbed  a  meat  cleaver  and  made  him  throw  up 
his  hands,  through  excitement  on  hearing  Bill's  death 
having  left  my  weapons  on  the  post  of  my  bed.  He 
was  then  taken  to  a  log  cabin  and  locked  up,  but  he 
got  away  and  was  afterwards  caught  at  Fagan's 
ranch  on  Horse  Creek.  He  was  taken  to  Yankton, 
tried  and  hung." 

Here,  forgetting  myself,  I  interrupted  again  in  an 
endeavour  to  reconcile  the  facts  of  "Wild  Bill's"  death 
as  just  detailed  with  the  version  of  that  tragic  event 
as  depicted  in  "Jane  of  the  Plain."  "Calamity's"  lan- 
guage was  again  unfit  to  print.  "Wild  Bill"  had 
not  expired  with  his  head  on  her  shoulder,  muttering 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  87 

brokenly  "My  heart  was  yours  from  the  first,  oh  my 
love!"  Nor  had  she  snipped  off  a  lock  of  Bill's  yel- 
low hair  and  sworn  to  bathe  it  in  the  heart-blood  of 
his  slayer.  All  bankety-blank  lies,  just  like  the 
"White  Devil."  Then,  as  before,  in  order  to  get  going 
properly,  she  had  to  back  up  and  start  all  over  with: 
"My  maiden  name  was  Martha  Cannary."  This 
time  I  kept  chewing  dandelions  and  let  her  run  on 
to  the  finish,  thereby  learning  the  secret  of  her  some- 
what remarkable  style  of  delivery.  This  is  the  way 
the  story  of  her  life  concluded: 

"We  arrived  in  Deadwood  on  October  9th,  1895. 
My  return  after  an  absence  of  so  many  years  to  the 
scene  of  my  most  noted  exploits,  created  quite  an 
excitement  among  my  many  friends  of  the  past,  to 
such  an  extent  that  a  vast  number  of  citizens  who 
had  heard  so  much  of  ^Calamity  Jane'  and  her  many 
adventures  were  anxious  to  see  me.  Among  the  many 
whom  I  met  were  several  gentlemen  from  eastern  cit- 
ies, who  advised  me  to  allow  myself  to  be  placed  be- 
fore the  public  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  the  people 
of  the  eastern  cities  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  lady 
scout  who  was  made  so  famous  during  her  daring  ca- 
reer in  the  West  and  Black  Hills  countries.  An 
agent  of  Kohl  and  Middleton,  the  celebrated  museum 
men,  came  to  Deadwood  through  the  solicitation  of 
these  gentlemen,  and  arrangements  were  made  to 


88         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

place  me  before  the  public  in  this  manner.  My  first 
engagement  to  begin  at  the  Palace  Museum,  Minnea- 
polis, January  20th,  1896,  under  this  management. 

Hoping  that  this  history  of  my  life  may  interest  all 
readers,  I  remain,  as  in  the  older  days, 

"Yours, 

"Mrs.  M.  Burk, 

"Better  known  as  "Calamity  Jane." 

"Calamity"  had  been  delivering  to  me  her  museum 
tour  lecture,  the  which  had  also  been  printed  in  a  lit- 
tle pink-covered  leaflet  to  sell  at  the  door.  That  was 
why,  like  a  big  locomotive  on  a  slippery  track,  she 
had  had  to  back  up  to  get  going  again  every  time  she 
was  stopped.  Oh,  well,  the  golden  dust  from  the 
butterfly  wing  of  Romance  has  to  be  brushed  off  some- 
time ;  only  it  wasr  rather  hard  luck  to  have  it  get  such 
a  devastating  side-swipe  all  at  once.  That  afternoon 
for  the  first  time  I  began  to  discern  that  there  was 
a  more  or  less  opaque  webbing  underlying  the  rain- 
bow-bright iridescence  of  sparkling  dust. 

With  "Calamity  Jane,"  the  heroine,  evanishing 
like  the  blown  foam  of  her  loved  Bock,  there  still  re- 
mained Martha  Burk,  the  human  document,  the  living 
page  of  thirty  years  of  the  most  vivid  epoch  of  North- 
western history.  Compared  to  what  I  had  hoped  from 
my  historic  researches  in  the  pages  of  "The  Beauti- 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  89 

ful  White  Devil  of  the  Yellowstone,"  this  was  of  com- 
paratively academic  though  none  the  less  real  inter- 
est. Reclining  among  the  dandelions  the  while  "Ca- 
lamity" oiled  the  hinges  of  her  memory  with  beer,  I 
conned  through  and  between  the  lines  of  that  record 
for  perhaps  a  week.  Patiently  diverting  her  from  her 
lecture  platform  delivery,  I  gradually  drew  from  the 
strange  old  character  much  of  intimate  and  colourful 
interest.  Circulating  for  three  decades  through  the 
upper  Missouri  and  Yellowstone  valleys  and  gravi- 
tating like  steel  to  the  magnet  wherever  action  was 
liveliest  and  trouble  the  thickest,  she  had  known  at 
close  range  all  of  the  most  famous  frontier  charac- 
ters of  her  day.  Naturally,  therefore,  her  unre- 
strained talk  was  of  Indians  and  Indian  fighters, 
road-agents,  desperadoes,  gamblers  and  bad  men  gen- 
erally—from "Wild  Bill"  Hickock  and  "Buffalo  Bill" 
Cody  to  Miles  and  Terry  and  Custer,  to  "Crazy 
Horse,"  "Rain-in-the-Face,"  Gall  and  "Sitting 
Bull."  She  told  me  a  good  deal  of  all  of  them,  not 
a  little,  indeed,  which  seemed  to  throw  doubt  on  a 
number  of  popularly  accepted  versions  of  various 
more  or  less  historical  events.  I  made  notes  of  all 
of  her  stories  on  the  spot,  -and  at  some  future  time  of 
comparative  leisure,  when  there  is  a  chance  to  cross- 
check sufficiently  with  fully  established  facts  from 
other  sources,  I  should  like  to  make  some  record  of 


90        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

'them.     These  pages  are  not,  of  course,  the  place  for 
controversial  matter  of  that  kind. 

One  morning  I  kept  tryst  among  the  dandelions 
in  vain.  Inquiry  at  the  saloon  revealed  the  fact  that 
""Calamity,"  dressed  in  her  buckskins,  had  called  for 
her  stabled  horse  at  daybreak  and  ridden  off  in  the 
direction  of  Big  Timber.  She  would  not  pay  for  her 
room  until  she  turned  up  again.  Patsy  said.  It  was 
a  perfectly  good  account,  though;  she  never  failed 
to  settle  up  in  the  end.  I  never  heard  of  her  again 
until  the  papers,  a  year  or  two  later,  had  word  of 
her  death. 

With  Romance  and  Historical  Research  out  of  the 
way,  my  mind  returned  to  the  matter  of  my  river 
voyage.  Giving  the  newly  built  skiff  a  belated  trial 
with  Sydney  Lamartine,  we  swamped  in  a  compara- 
tively insignificant  rapid  and  shared  a  good  rolling 
and  wetting.  Agreed  that  the  craft  needed  higher 
sides,  we  dragged  it  back  to  the  yards  for  alterations. 
Sydney  thought  he  might  find  time  to  complete  them 
inside  of  a  week.  Before  that  week  was  over  I  had 
one  foot  in  a  newspaper  editorial  sanctum  and  the 
other  on  the  initial  sack  of  a  semi-professional  base- 
ball team.  As  both  footings  seemed  certain  to  de- 
velop into  stepping-stones  to  the  realization  of  the 
most  cherished  of  my  childhood's  ambitions  (I  had 
never    cared    much    about    being    President),    the 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  91 

river  voyage  to  the  Gulf  went  into  complete  discard 
— or  rather  into  a  twentj^^-year  postponement. 

I  became  an  editor  as  a  direct  consequence  of 
making  good  on  the  ball  team ;  I  ceased  to  be  an  edi- 
tor as  a  direct  consequence  of  betraying  a  sacred 
trust  laid  upon  me  by  the  ball  team.  This  was  some- 
thing of  the  way  of  it:  Livingston  had  high  hopes  of 
copping  the  championship  of  the  Montana  bush 
league,  which,  at  the  time  of  my  arrival,  was  just  bud- 
ding into  life  with  the  willows  and  cottonwood  along 
the  river.  For  this  laudable  purpose  a  fearful  and 
wonderful  aggregation  had  been  chivvied  together 
from  the  ends  of  baseballdom,  numbering  on  its 
roster  about  as  many  names  that  had  once  been  fam- 
ous in  diamond  history  as  those  that  were  destined  to 
become  so.  Of  the  team  as  finally  selected  three  or 
four  of  us  were  known  to  the  police,  and  at  least  two 
of  us  came  into  town  on  brake-beams.  One  of  us 
was  trying  to  forget  the  dope  habit,  and  another — 
our  catcher  and  greatest  star — ^had  just  been  gradu- 
ated from  a  rum-cure  institute. 

All  of  us  were  guaranteed  jobs — sinecural  in  char- 
acter of  course.  Paddy  Ryan,  one  of  the  pitchers, 
and  two  or  three  others  were  bar-keepers.  There 
was  also  one  night-watchman,  one  electrician  and  one 
compositor.  I  was  rather  a  problem  to  the  manage- 
ment until  the  editor  of  the  Enterprise  was  sent  to 


92         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

the  same  institute  recently  evacuated  by  our  bibulous 
catcher.  Then  I  was  put  in  his  place — I  mean  that 
of  the  editor.  I  don't  seem  to  recall  much  of  my  edi- 
torial duties  or  achievements,  save  that  one  important 
reform  I  endeavoured  to  institute — that  of  getting  a 
roll  of  pink  paper  and  publishing  the  Enterprise  as 
a  straight  sporting  sheet — somehow  fell  through. 

They  tried  me  out  at  centre  in  the  opening  game 
against  Billings,  and  after  the  second — at  Bozeban — 
I  became  a  permanency  at  first-base,  my  old  corner 
at  Stanford.  Besides  holding  down  the  initial  bag, 
I  was  told  off  for  the  unofficial  duty  of  guarding  the 
only  partially  rum-cured  catcher — seeing  that  he  was 
kept  from  even  inhaling  the  fumes  of  the  seductive 
red-eye,  a  single  seance  with  which  meant  his  inevit- 
able downfall  for  the  season. 

I  played  fairly  promising  ball  right  along  through 
that  season,  and  but  for  the  final  disaster  which  over- 
took me  in  my  unofficial  capacity  as  Riley's  keeper 
might  have  gone  on  to  the  fulfillment  of  my  life 
ambition.  Up  to  the  final  and  deciding  series  with 
Butte  I  kept  my  thirsty  ward  under  an  unrelax- 
ing  rein,  with  the  result  that  he  played  the  greatest 
baseball  of  his  career.  Then  a  gang  of  Copper  City 
sports,  who  had  been  betting  heavily  on  the  series, 
contrived  to  lure  Riley  away  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
while  I  was  taking  a  bath.     He  was  in  the  clouds  by 


"CALAMITY  JANE"  93 

the  time  I  located  him,  and  rapidly  going  out  of 
control  into  a  spinning  nose-dive.  He  crashed  soon 
after,  and  when  I  left  him  just  as  the  dawn  was 
breaking  through  the  red  smoke  above  the  copper 
smelters  he  was  as  busy  chasing  mauve  mice  and  pur- 
ple cockroaches  as  the  substitute  we  put  in  his  place 
that  afternoon  was  with  passed  balls.  To  cap  the 
climax — in  endeavouring  to  extend  a  bunt  into  a  two- 
bagger,  or  some  equally  futile  stunt — I  strained  an 
old  "Charley  Horse"  and  went  out  of  the  game  in 
the  second  inning.  We  lost  the  game,  series  and 
championship,  and  I,  incidentally,  ceased  to  be  a  ris- 
ing semi-pro  ball  player  and  a  somewhat  less  rising 
country  editor. 

I  have  failed  to  mention  that  I  did  have  one  more 
fling  at  the  Yellowstone  that  summer.  Lamartine 
remodelled  his  skiff  as  we  had  planned,  and  one  Sun- 
day when  Livingston  had  a  game  on  at  Big  Timber 
we  decided  to  make  the  run  down  by  river.  JPushing 
off  at  daybreak  we  arrived  under  the  big  bluff  of 
Big  Timber  a  good  hour  or  two  before  noon.  I  find 
this  run  thus  celebrated  in  an  ancient  clipping  from 
the  Livingston  Post,  contemporary  of  the  Enterprise. 

*'Mr.  L.  R.  Freeman,  Mr.  Armstrong  and  Sydney  Lam- 
artine made  the  trip  from  this  city  to  Big  Timber  last  Sun- 
day in  a  flat-bottomed  boat.  The  river  course  between  this 
city  and  Big  Timber  is  fully  50  miles,  and  the  gentlemen 


94        DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

made  the  trip  without  mishap  in  six  hours.  Several  times 
the  boat  had  narrow  escapes  from  being  turned  over,  but 
each  time  the  skill  of  the  boatmen  prevented  any  trouble. 
Quite  a  crowd  assembled  on  the  Springdale  bridge  and 
watched  the  crew  shoot  the  little  craft  through  the  boiling 
riffle  at  that  point,  cheering  them  lustily  for  the  skill  they 
displayed  in  swinging  their  boat  into  the  most  advantageous 
places.  The  trip  is  a  hazardous  one,  but  full  of  keen  enjoy- 
ment and  spice  and  zest.  The  time  made  is  without  doubt 
the  fastest  river  boating  ever  done  on  the  Yellowstone,  and 
it  is  extremely  doubtful  if  the  record  has  been  duplicated  on 
any  other  stream.  Mr.  Freeman,  who  has  had  considerable 
experience  in  boating  in  Alaska,  says  that  he  never  has  seen 
a  small  boat  make  such  splendid  time." 

I  don't  remember  a  lot  about  that  undeniably 
speedy  run  save  that  we  stopped  for  nothing  but 
dumping  water  out  of  the  boat.  Last  summer,  with 
a  number  of  seasons  of  swift-water  experience  to  help, 
I  took  rather  more  than  nine  hours  to  cover  the  same 
stretch.  I  suppose  it  was  because  the  river  and  I 
were  twenty  years  older.  Age  is  a  great  slower 
down,  at  least  where  a  man  is  concerned.  I  do  seem 
to  recall  now  that  I  stopped  a  number  of  times  on 
this  last  run  to  see  which  was  the  smoother  channel. 
Doubtless  the  old  Yellowstone  was  just  as  fast  as 
ever. 


PART  II 
DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 


CHAPTER  I 

PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE  PAEK 

In  embarking  anew  on  a  jom*ney  from  the  Con- 
tinental Divide  to  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi  I  was 
influenced  by  three  considerations  in  deciding  to  start 
on  the  Yellowstone  rather  than  on  one  of  the  three 
forks  of  the  Missouri.  There  was  the  sentimental  de- 
sire to  see  again  the  land  of  geysers  and  hot  springs 
and  waterfalls,  no  near  rival  of  which  had  I  ever  dis- 
covered in  twenty  years  of  travel  in  the  out-of-the- 
way  places  of  the  earth.  Then  I  wanted  to  go  all 
the  way  by  the  main  river,  and  there  was  no  question 
in  my  mind  that  the  Yellowstone  was  really  the  main 
Missouri,  just  as  the  Missouri  was  the  main  Missis- 
sippi. John  Neihardt  has  put  this  so  well  in 
his  inimitable  "River  and  I"  that  I  cannot  do 
better  than  quote  what  he  has  written  in  this  con- 
nection. 

"The  geographer  tells  us  that  the  mouth  of  the 
Missouri  is  about  seventeen  miles  above  St.  Louis, 
and  that  the  mouth  of  the  Yellowstone  is  near  Bu- 
f ord,  North  Dakota.  It  appeared  to  me  that  the  fact 
is  inverted.    The  Missouri's  mouth  is  near  Buford, 

97 


98         DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

and  the  Yellowstone  empties  directly  into  the  Missis- 
sippi. I  find  that  I  am  not  alone  in  this  opinion. 
Father  de  Smet  and  other  early  travellers  felt  the 
truth  of  it ;  and  Captain  Marsh,  who  has  piloted  river 
craft  through  every  navigable  foot  of  the  entire  sys- 
tem of  rivers,  having  sailed  the  Missouri  within  sound 
of  the  Falls  and  the  Yellowstone  above  Pompey's 
Pillar,  feels  that  the  Yellowstone  is  the  main  stem 
and  the  Missouri  a  tributary. 

"Where  the  two  rivers  join,  even  at  low  water,  the 
Yellowstone  pours  a  vast  turbulent  flood,  compared 
with  which  the  clear  and  quieter  Missouri  appears  an 
overgrown  rain-water  creek.  The  Mississippi  after 
some  miles  obliterates  all  traces  of  its  great  western 
tributary;  but  the  Missouri  at  Buford  is  entirely  lost 
in  the  Yellowstone  within  a  few  hundred  yards.  All 
of  the  unique  characteristics  by  which  the  Missouri 
River  is  known  are  given  it  by  the  Yellowstone — its 
turbulence,  its  tawniness,  its  feline  treachery,  its  giant 
caprices." 

I  cannot  agree  with  Mr.  Neihardt  that  the  Missis- 
sippi obliterates  the  Missouri  within  a  few  hundred 
yards,  or  even  a  few  hundred  miles;  for  in  all  but 
name  it  is  the  latter,  not  the  former,  that  mingles  its 
mud  with  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  But  in  his  contention 
that  the  Yellowstone  is  the  dominant  stream  where 
it  joins  the  Missiouri  he  is  borne  out  by  all  that  I  saw 


TRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE       99 

and  the  opinion  of  every  authority  I  talked  with,  from 
a  half-breed  river-rat  at  Buford  to  the  Army  engi- 
neers at  Kansas  City. 

My  third  reason  for  choosing  the  Yellowstone  was 
the  technical  consideration  of  superior  "boatability." 
The  head  of  continuous  small-boat  navigation  on  the 
Yellowstone  is  about  at  the  northern  boundary  of 
of  the  Park,  at  an  elevation  of  over  five  thousand 
feet.  On  the  Missouri  it  is  at  Fort  Benton,  below 
the  cataracts  of  Great  Falls,  whose  elevation  is  less 
than  half  that  of  Gardiner.  As  the  distance  from 
these  respective  points  to  the  junction  of  the  two 
rivers  near  the  Montana-North  Dakota  line  is  about 
the  same,  it  is  evident  that  the  rate  of  fall  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone is  many  times  greater  than  that  of  the  Up- 
per Missouri  below  Benton.  Indeed,  the  figures  are, 
roughly,  3000  feet  fall  for  the  former  and  500  for  the 
latter.  This  means  that  the  Yellowstone  is  much  the 
swifter  stream  and,  being  also  of  considerably  greater 
volume,  is  infinitely  preferable  to  the  boatman  who 
does  not  mind  more  or  less  continuous  white  water. 
In  addition  to  these  points,  the  fact  that  the  Yellow- 
stone, from  the  Park  to  its  mouth,  flows  through  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  valleys  in  America  while  the 
Missouri  meanders  a  considerable  distance  among  the 
Bad  Lands,  makes  the  former  route  the  pleasanter 
as  well  as  the  swifter  one.     These  considerations. 


100       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

pretty  well  in  my  mind  before  I  started,  were  more 
than  borne  out  in  every  respect  by  my  subsequent 
experience.  There  are  two  or  three  large  rivers  down 
which  boats  (by  frequent  linings  and  portagings)  can 
be  taken  which  are  of  greater  fall  than  the  Yellow- 
stone, but  I  know  of  none  anywhere  in  the  world  on 
which  such  fast  time  can  be  made  as  on  the  latter — 
this  because  its  rapids  are  all  runnable. 

As  I  was  not  out  for  records  of  any  description  upon 
this  trip,  it  was  no  part  of  my  plan  to  start  from  the 
remotest  source  of  the  Yellowstone,  some  twenty- 
five  miles  south  of  the  southern  boundary  of  the  Park, 
but  rather  simply  to  follow  down  from  the  most  con- 
venient point  where  the  Continental  Divide  tilted  to 
that  river's  upper  water-shed.  Following  the  river  as 
closely  as  might  be  by  foot  through  the  Park,  it  was 
then  my  purpose  to  take  train  to  Livingston  and  re- 
sume my  voyage  from  about  where  it  had  been  aban- 
doned two  decades  previously.  As  the  steel  skiff  I  had 
ordered  was  extremely  light,  and  of  a  type  quite  new 
to  me,  I  did  not  care  to  make  my  trial  run  through 
"Yankee  Jim's  Canyon." 

I  entered  the  Park  on  June  21st,  the  second  day 
of  the  season,  by  the  West  Yellowstone  entrance. 
This  route,  following  up  the  valley  of  the  Madison, 
was  hardly  more  than  opened  up  on  the  occasion  of 
my  former  visit.     At  that  time  the  nearest  railway 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     101 

point  was  Monida,  on  the  Oregon  Short  Line.  Now 
I  found  the  Union  Pacific  terminus  chock-ablock  with 
the  boundary  at  West  Yellowstone,  and  fully  as  many 
tourists  coming  in  by  this  entrance  as  by  the  northern 
gateway  at  Gardiner.  The  eastern  entrance,  by 
Cody,  was  also  regularly  served  by  the  transporta- 
tion company,  while  a  southerly  road  to  the  Snake 
was  open  for  auto  traffic.  The  accessibility  of  the 
Park  had  been  increased  many-fold. 

Probably  more  than  ninety-five  per  cent,  of  the 
tourists  visiting  the  Yellowstone  are  fluttered  folk 
and  wild  being  rushed  through  on  a  four-day  schedule. 
This  imposes  a  terribly  hectic  program,  which,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  fault  of  the  transportation  or  hotel 
people,  (who  offer  all  facilities  and  inducements  for 
a  calmer  survey),  but  of  the  tourist  himself,  who 
seems  imbued  with  the  idea  that  the  more  he  sees  in 
the  day  the  more  he  is  getting  for  his  money.  The 
American  tourist,  doubtless  a  quite  mild-demeanoured 
and  amenable  person  on  his  native  heath,  when  ob- 
served flagrante  delicto  touring  is  by  long  odds  the 
worst-mannered  of  all  of  God's  creatures.  Collec- 
tively, that  is;  individually  many  of  him  and  her 
turn  out  far  from  offensive.  Strangely — perhaps  be- 
cause, for  the  moment,  they  are  all  more  or  less  in- 
fected with  the  same  form  of  hysteria — they  never 
seem  to  get  much  on  each  other's  nerves.     To  a  wan- 


102       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

derer,  however,  habituated  to  the  kindness,  considera- 
tion, dignity  and  respect  for  age  commonly  displayed 
by  such  peoples  as  the  Red  Indian,  the  South  Sea  Is- 
lander and  the  Borneo  Dyak,  the  tourist  at  close 
range  is  rather  trying.  I  proceeded  with  the  regular 
convoy  to  Old  Faithful,  then  took  a  car  to  the  crest  of 
the  Continental  Divide,  and  proceeded  from  there 
down  the  Yellowstone  on  foot  in  comparative  peace 
and  contentment. 

With  the  large  and  rapidly  increasing  number  of 
railway  tourists  coming  to  the  Park  every  year,  each 
intent  upon  making  the  round  and  getting  away  in 
the  minimum  of  time,  there  is  probably  no  better  plan 
devisable  than  the  present  one  of  shooting  them  in 
and  out,  and  from  camp  to  camp,  in  large  busses. 
The  most  annoying  and  unsatisfactory  feature  of 
this  system  is  the  great  amount  of  time  which  the 
tourist  must  stand  by  waiting  for  his  bus-seat  and 
room  to  be  allotted.  This,  however,  can  hardly  be 
helped  with  daily  shipments  numbering  several  hun- 
dred being  made  from  and  received  at  each  camp  and 
hotel.  Under  the  circumstances  the  most  satisfactory 
way  of  touring  the  Park  is  in  one's  own  car,  stopping 
at  either  hotel  or  camp,  according  to  one's  taste  and 
pocketbook.  Delightful  as  the  auto  camping  grounds 
are,  tenting  is  hardly  to  be  recommended  on  account 
of  the  mosquitoes. 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     103 

Allowing  for  the  difference  in  season,  there  was 
little  change  observable  in  the  natural  features  of  the 
Park  since  my  former  visit.  Things  looked  different, 
of  course,  but  that  was  only  because  there  was  less 
snow  and  more  dust.  The  only  appreciable  natural 
changes  were  in  the  hot  spring  and  geyser  areas, 
where  here  or  there  a  formation  had  augmented  or 
crumbled  to  dust  according  to  whether  or  not  its 
supply  of  mineral-charged  water  had  been  maintained 
or  not.  The  cliffs  and  mountains,  waterfalls,  and 
gorges  could  have  suffered  no  more  than  the  two  de- 
cades, infinitesimal  geologic  modifications — ^mostly 
erosive.  Even  in  the  geyser  basins  the  changes  of  a 
decade  are  such  as  few  save  a  scientific  observer  would 
note.  The  first  authentic  written  description  of  the 
Fire  Hole  geysers  basins  was  penned  nearly  eighty 
years  ago  by  Warren  Angus  Ferris,  a  clerk  of  the 
American  Fur  Company.  It  describes  that  region 
of  the  present  as  accurately  as  would  the  account  of 
a  last  summer's  tourist. 

Not  unless  we  are  prepared  to  accept  those  delec- 
table yarns  of  old  Jim  Bridger  as  the  higher  truth 
is  there  any  evidence  that  the  natural  features  of  the 
Park  have  suffered  material  change  since  its  discov- 
ery. But  even  in  his  own  credulous  time  people  were 
hardly  incHned  to  swallow  the  story  of  that  cliff  of 
telescopic  glass  which  tempted  Jim  into   shooting 


104       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

twenty-five-miles-distant  elk  under  the  impression 
that  it  was  grazing  within  gunshot.  Nor  would  those 
ancient  sceptics  believe  the  story  of  the  way  the  hoofs 
of  Bridger's  horse  were  shrunk  to  pin-points  in  cross- 
ing the  Alum  Creek,  or  of  how  those  astringent  wa- 
ters actually  shrunk  the  land  and  reduced  the  distance 
he  had  to  travel.  Indeed,  it  is  hard  to  believe  these 
stories  even  today.  And  yet  Bridger  is  credited  with 
being  the  greatest  natural  topographer  in  frontier  his- 
tory— ^he  was  said  to  be  able  to  draw  an  accurate  map 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  on  a  buffalo  hide. 

But  if  the  natural  changes  in  the  Yellowstone  ap- 
peared inappreciable,  the  artificial,  the  evolutionary 
changes  were  very  striking.  Roads  and  trails  had 
been  greatly  improved  and  extended,  horse-drawn 
vehicles  had  given  place  to  motors,  and  the  Rangers 
of  the  National  Park  Service  had  taken  over  policing 
and  patrol  from  the  Army.  Most  heartening  of  all, 
Administration  seemed  at  last  to  have  found  itself. 
In  the  decade  or  two  following  the  creation  of  the 
Park,  there  were  two  Superintendents,  Langford 
and  Norris,  who  gave  the  best  that  was  in  them  to 
an  all  but  thankless  task.  Greatly  hampered  by  lack 
of  co-operation  and  even  by  actual  obstruction  in 
Washington  the  achievement  of  neither  was  commen- 
surate wifh  his  effort. 

Besides  Langford  and  Norris  these  earlier  years 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE    105 

saw  two  or  three  political  appointees  at  the  head  of 
Park  affairs,  men  whom  no  less  an  authority  than 
Captain  Chittenden  intimates  were  either  incompe- 
tent or  corrupt.  It  was  largely  the  lamentable  re- 
sults of  the  administration  or  these  latter  that  was 
responsible  for  turning  the  Yellowstone  over  to  the 
Army,  just  as  was  done  in  the  construction  of  the  Pan- 
ama Canal.  The  Army,  subject  to  the  limitations 
of  military  administration  for  this  kind  of  work,  came 
through  as  usual  with  great  credit  to  itself.  A  mili- 
tary Superintendent — Capt.  George  W.  Goode — was 
in  charge  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit,  and  at  that 
time  it  seemed  probable  that  the  army  regime  might 
be  continued  indefinitely.  It  was  plain,  however,  that 
an  officer  who  might  be  sent  from  the  Philippines  to 
the  Yellowstone  one  year,  and  from  the  Yellowstone 
to  Alaska  the  next,  was  not  in  a  position,  no  matter 
what  his  abihty  and  enthusiasm,  to  do  full  justice  to 
the  task  in  hand.  What  appeared  to  be  needed  was 
a  civil  administration,  with  the  right  sort  of  men, 
backed  up  with  sympathy  and  vigour  at  Washington. 
That  is  the  desideratum  which  seems  to  have  been 
arrived  at,  both  as  to  men  and  the  support  at  the  Na- 
tional Capital. 

If  I  were  going  to  pay  adequate  tribute  to  what  the 
National  Park  Service  is  doing  and  trying  to  do  I 
should  want  the  rest  of  this  volume  in  which  to  express 


106      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

myself.  So  I  shall  only  say  in  passing  that,  judging 
from  the  members  of  that  service  I  have  met,  includ- 
ing the  Superintendent  and  Assistant  Superintend- 
ent of  the  Yellowstone,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  develop- 
ing a  type  that  does  not  suffer  in  comparison  with 
that  fine  idealist,  the  British  Civil  Servant,  whom  I 
have  always  admired  so  unreservedly  where  I  have 
found  him  at  work  in  India,  the  Federated  Malay 
States,  and  other  outposts  of  empire — an  official  of 
ability  and  experience  giving  his  lifetime  for  the  good 
of  others  for  very  modest  pay.  If  I  knew  how  to  pay 
a  higher  compliment  I  should  do  so.  In  concluding 
this  chapter  I  shall  touch  briefly  on  the  future  plans 
and  policy  of  the  National  Park  Service  for  the  Yel- 
lowstone. 

It  was  a  comparatively  modest  affluent  of  Yellow- 
stone Lake  that  I  followed  down  from  the  two-ways- 
draining  marsh  on  the  Continental  Divide.  I  did  not 
come  upon  the  Yellowstone  proper  until  I  reached  the 
outlet  of  the  Lake.  It  is  a  splendid  stream  even  there 
— broad,  deep,  swift  and  crystal-clear.  At  a  point 
very  near  where  the  bridge  of  the  Cody  road  crosses 
the  river  is  the  site  of  the  projected  Yellowstone  Lake 
Dam,  a  dangerous  encroachment  of  power  and  irriga- 
tion interests  which  the  energetic  efforts  of  the  Na- 
tional Park  Service  appear  now  to  have  disposed  of 
for  good. 


PRESENT-DAY  YELL0WST0NE5     107 

From  my  previous  recollection  of  the  river  from 
the  outlet  to  the  Upper  Falls  I  had  the  impression 
that  perhaps  the  first  six  or  eight  miles  of  this  stretch, 
with  careful  lining  at  one  or  two  rapids,  might  be  run 
with  an  ordinary  skiff.  Finding  a  number  of  small 
fishing  boats  moored  just  below  the  outlet  I  endea- 
voured to  hire  one  with  the  idea  of  settling  this  point 
in  my  mind.  The  boatman  refused  to  entertain  my 
proposition  for  a  moment,  not  even  when  I  offered  to 
deposit  the  value  of  the  skiff  in  question.  "I  don't 
care  if  you  reckon  you  can  swim  out  of  one  of  them 
rapids,"  he  said  with  finality.  "My  boat  can't  swim, 
and  a  boat  earns  its  value  three  times  over  in  a  good 
season."  He  was  a  practical  chap,  that  one.  Why, 
indeed,  shouldn't  it  worry  him  more  to  have  his  boat 
go  over  the  Falls  than  it  would  to  have  me  do  it? 

Walking  down  from  the  Lake  to  the  Canyon  I  used 
the  road  only  where  it  ran  close  to  the  river.  Thus  I 
not  only  came  to  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  latter,  but  also  avoided  the  blended  dust  and  gaso- 
line wakes  of  the  daily  Hegira  of  yellow  busses.  At 
the  first  rapid — an  abrupt  fall  of  from  three  to  six 
feet  formed  by  a  ledge  of  bedrock  extending  all  the 
way  across  the  river — I  found  countless  millions  of 
trout  bunched  where  that  obstacle  blocked  their  up- 
ward movement  to  the  Lake.  I  had  seen  salmon 
jumping  falls  on  many  occasions,  but  never  before 


108       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

trout.  These  seemed  to  be  getting  in  each  other's 
way  a  good  deal,  but  even  so  were  clearing  the  bar- 
rier like  a  flight  of  so  many  grasshoppers.  Many  that 
got  their  take-off  correctly  gauged  made  a  clean  jump 
of  it.  Others,  striking  near  the  top  of  the  fall,  still 
had  enough  kick  left  in  their  tails  to  drive  on  up 
through  the  coiling  bottle-green  water.  But  most  of 
those  that  struck  below  the  middle  of  the  fall  were 
carried  back  and  had  their  leap  for  nothing. 

Immediately  under  the  fall  the  fish  were  so  thick 
that  thrusting  one's  hand  into  a  pool  near  the  bank  was 
like  reaching  into  the  bumper  haul  of  a  freshly-drawn 
seine.  Closing  a  fist  on  the  slippery  creatures  was 
quite  another  matter,  however.  I  was  all  of  twenty 
minutes  throwing  half  a  dozen  two  and  three-pound- 
ers out  onto  the  bank.  Stringing  these  on  a  piece  of 
willow,  I  carried  them  up  to  the  road  and  offered 
them  as  a  present  to  the  first  load  of  campers  that 
came  along.  They  appeared  to  be  from  Kansas,  or 
Missouri  or  thereabouts,  and  so  had  quite  a  discus- 
sion before  accepting  them — didn't  seem  quite  agreed 
as  to  whether  the  fish  were  fresh  or  not.  Finally  I 
handed  one  of  them  the  string  and  went  back  to  the 
trail  by  the  river.  They  were  still  so  engrossed  in  their 
debate  that  it  never  occurred  to  them  to  say  "Thank 
you."    Ford  owners  are  nearly  always  suspicious  I 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     109 

have  found,  and  notably  so  when  they  come  from  Pike 
County  or  environs. 

There  is  a  magnificent  stretch  of  rapids  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  or  more  above  the  Upper  Falls, 
where  the  river  takes  a  running  start  for  its  two 
major  leaps.  I  spent  all  of  an  hour  lounging  along 
here,  speculating  as  to  just  how  far  a  man  might  get 
in  with  a  boat — and  then  get  out.  On  a  quiet,  sunny 
day,  with  the  mind  at  peace  with  the  world,  I  am  cer- 
tain I  would  not  venture  beyond  the  first  sharp  pitch 
above  the  bridge.  Fleeing  from  Indians,  tourists  or 
a  jazz  orchestra,  however,  I  am  inclined  to  think  I 
would  chance  it  for  all  of  three  hundred  yards.  Pos- 
sibly even,  in  the  event  it  were  either  of  the  two  latter 
that  menaced,  I  would  chance  the  Falls  themselves. 

To  me  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone  is 
more  inspiring — in  a  perfectly  human,  friendly  sort  of 
way — ^than  any  other  of  the  great  sights  of  the  world. 
There  are  others  that  are  on  a  bigger  scale  and  more 
awesome — the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado  or  the 
snows  of  Kinchin junga  from  Darjeeling,  for  exam- 
ples,— but  to  the  ordinary  soul  these  are  too  stupen- 
dous for  him  to  grasp,  they  appeal  rather  than  thrill. 
There  may  be  a  few  exalted,  self -communing  souls,  like 
Woodrow  Wilson  and  William  Randolph  Hearst, 
who  could  look  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado 


110       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

right  between  the  eyes  and  feel  quite  on  a  par  with  it 
— ^nay,  even  a  bit  condescendinT  perhaps.  Lesser 
mortals  never  quite  get  over  catching  their  breath  at 
the  more  than  earthly  wonder  of  it.  I  have  never  seen 
any  one  save  a  present-day  flapper  gaze  for  the  first 
time  on  the  sombre  depths  of  the  great  gorge  of  the 
Colorado  with  untroubled  eyes. 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone  is  not  like 
that — it  exhilarates  like  a  glass  of  old  wine,  a  fresh 
sea  breeze,  a  master-piece  of  painting.  There  are 
no  darksome  depths  to  awaken  doubt.  You  can  see 
right  to  the  bottom  of  the  gorge  from  almost  any 
vantage  point  you  choose.  But  it  is  the  rainbow- 
gaiety  of  the  brilliant  colour  streaking  that  gives  the 
real  kick.  That  gets  over  with  all  and  sundry — and 
grows  on  them.  The  ones  to  whom  the  Canyon  ap- 
peals most  are  those  who  have  seen  it  most  frequently. 

Twenty  years  ago  I  attempted,  in  the  diary  of  my 
winter  ski  tour,  some  description  of  the  snow-choked 
gorge  of  the  Yellowstone  as  I  glimpsed  it  from  the 
rim.  One  learns  a  vast  quantity  of  various  kinds  of 
things  in  two  decades,  among  them  a  realization  of  the 
numerous  occasions  on  which  he  has  been  an  ass.  I 
shall  try  not  to  offend  again  by  attempting  to  describe 
Grand  Canyons. 

I  descended  to  the  river  at  several  points  in  the 
Canyon,  but  found  it  quite  impossible  to  proceed 


©  /.  E.  Haynes,  St.  Paul 


TOWER  FALL  AND  TOWERS 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     111 

down  stream  any  distance  in  the  bottom  of  the  gorge. 
The  fall  is  tremendous  all  the  way  through  and  I 
doubt  if  there  are  many  stretches  of  over  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  in  length  in  which  a  boat  could  live.  The 
total  fall  from  the  Lake  to  the  foot  of  the  Grand  Can- 
yon is  something  like  three  thousand  feet,  probably 
not  far  from  a  hundred  feet  to  the  mile.  I  cannot 
recall  offhand  a  river  of  so  great  a  volume  anywhere 
in  the  world  that  has  so  considerable  a  fall.  The 
Indus,  in  the  great  bend  above  Leh,  in  Ladakh,  may 
approximate  such  a  drop,  and  so  may  the  Brahma- 
putra, where  it  cleaves  the  main  range  of  the  Himal- 
ayas after  passing  Lhassa.  The  Yangtse,  where  it 
comes  tumbling  down  from  the  Tibetan  plateau  into 
Szechuan,  is  hardly  more  than  a  mountain  torrent. 
With  the  possible  exception  of  the  main  affluents  of 
the  Upper  Amazon  in  the  Peruvian  Cordillera,  these 
are  the  only  great  rivers  in  the  running  for  a  record 
of  this  kind. 

In  walking  from  the  Grand  Canyon  to  Mammoth 
Hot  Springs  I  followed  the  road  over  Mount  Wash- 
burn, stopping  for  the  night  at  Camp  Roosevelt,  be- 
low Tower  Falls.  This  most  recently  established  of 
the  Park  camps  takes  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it 
is  located  on  the  spot  where  Roosevelt  and  John  Bur- 
roughs made  headquarters  on  the  occasion  of  their 
winter  tour  of  the  Yellowstone  a  decade  and  a  half 


112       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ago.  The  best  fishing  in  the  Park  is  found  in  this 
section,  and  for  that  reason  the  management  has  de- 
veloped and  maintained  it  very  largely  as  a  sporting 
camp.  Only  those  with  a  really  genuine  love  of  the 
out-of-doors  stop  there,  while  the  regular  ruck  of  the 
tourists  pass  it  by.  Those  facts  alone  set  it  apart  in 
a  class  by  itself  as  the  pleasantest  spot  in  the  Park 
for  a  prolonged  sojourn. 

On  account  of  the  class  of  people  it  attracts,  Roose- 
velt has  been  made  rather  a  pet  of  the  management 
from  its  inception.  This  is  especially  true  of  person- 
nel. The  wholly  charming  couple — a  Kentucky  gen- 
tleman and  his  wife — whom  I  found  in  charge  last 
summer  presided  over  the  camp  as  over  a  country 
home  in  the  Blue  Grass.  The  staff — all  college  boys 
and  girls — was  practically  a  complete  Glee  Club  in 
itself.  Good  sports,  too.  Roosevelt  was  the  only 
camp  at  which  I  did  not  find  myself  consumed  with 
longing  for  the  primeval  solitude  of  the  Park  as  I  had 
known  it  on  my  winter  tour — during  the  closed  season 
for  tourists. 

Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  in  spite  of  the  passing  of 
Fort  Yellowstone,  I  found  to  have  augmented  greatly 
since  my  former  visit.  Most  of  my  old  friends  were 
gone,  however.  Assistant  Superintendent  Lindsay  be- 
ing the  only  one  remaining  who  recalled  my  coming 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     113 

and  going.  In  company  with  a  couple  of  officers 
from  the  Post  we  had,  I  believe,  enjoyed  an  after- 
noon of  fearful  and  wonderful  tennis  on  the  still  ice- 
and  snow-covered  court.  Federal  Judge  Meldrum, 
terror  of  poachers,  had  been  in  the  party  twenty  years 
ago,  but  said  he  did  not  remember  me.  I  was  rather 
glad  he  had  had  no  occasion  to.  Had  I  ever  been 
connected  with  the  geyser  that  Private  Ikey  Einstein 
soaped,  or  with  aiding  and  abetting  Sergeant  Hope 
to  drive  a  flock  of  sheep  over  the  bluffs  into  the  Gar- 
diner River,  the  Judge  would  doubtless  have  been 
able  to  refer  to  the  official  memoranda  to  jog  his  mem- 
ory— possibly  some  thumb  prints  and  a  side  and  front 
view  of  my  criminal  phiz. 

To  my  great  regret  I  learned  that  F.  Jay  Haynes, 
official  photographer  of  the  Park,  had  died  but  a  few 
months  before.  In  his  place  I  found  Jack  Haynes, 
his  son,  who  is  brilliantly  maintaining  the  reputation 
of  his  illustrious  father,  both  as  an  artist  and  as  a 
factor  in  forwarding  the  destiny  of  the  Yellowstone. 
What  the  intrepid  Kolb  Brothers  are  doing  in  photo- 
graphing the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado,  what 
Byron  Harmon  is  doing  in  the  Canadian  Rockies, 
that  the  Haynes  family  have  done  for  the  Yellow- 
stone Park.  I  say  "have  done,"  because  their  work, 
having  been  carried  on  during  nearly  four  decades,  is 


114       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

much  more  nearly  complete  than  that  of  the  others 
who  have  worked  a  shorter  time  in  a  rather  less  con- 
centrated sphere. 

But  F.  Jay  Haynes  was  far  more  than  a  great  pho- 
tographic artist.  He  was  a  great  lover  of  the  out- 
of-doors  generally  and  of  that  of  Yellowstone  Park 
particularly.  In  his  organization  of  the  transporta- 
tion companies  to  serve  respectively  the  east  and  west 
entrances  to  the  Park,  it  was  the  bringing  of  the  lat- 
ter to  the  people  that  was  the  main  consideration  in 
his  mind;  the  financial  success  of  his  ventures  was 
secondary.  I  believe  these  were  successful  on  both 
counts,  however.  I  know  that  Mr.  Haynes  is  given 
the  credit  for  inducing  the  late  E.  H.  Harriman  to 
build  a  branch  of  the  Union  Pacific  to  the  western 
entrance  of  the  Park,  now  the  principal  portal  so  far 
as  number  of  tourists  is  concerned.  They  have  re- 
cently done  the  memory  of  Mr.  Haynes  the  honour 
of  naming  a  mountain  after  him.  This  is  a  fitting 
tribute,  and  well  deserved.  Far  more  impressive  a 
monument,  however,  are  his  pictures.  Mount 
Haynes  may  be  seen  for  a  distance  of  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred miles;  the  Yellowstone  photographs  of  F.  Jay 
Haynes  may  be  seen  at  the  ends  of  the  world. 

Jack  Haynes  is  trying  to  do  everything  his  father 
did,  both  as  an  artist  and  as  a  friend  of  the  Yellow- 
stone.    He  was  on  the  ground  early.    He  claims  to 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     115 

have  had  his  first  ride  over  the  Park  roads  some  thirty- 
years  ago — in  a  baby  carriage.  Now  he  burns  up 
those  same  roads  in  a  Stutz  roadster,  taking  hours  to 
make  the  Grand  Circuit  where  his  father  took  days 
or  weeks.  A  Ranger  at  the  Canyon  told  me  that 
Jack  made  the  round  so  fast  that  he  often  headed 
back  into  Norris  before  the  dust  from  his  outward 
trip  had  settled  down.  I  think  that  is  somewhat  ex- 
aggerated; yet  Judge  Meldrum,  who  trundled  Jack 
on  his  knee,  has  figured  that  the  latter's  time  for  some 
of  his  rounds  averages  about  twice  the  speed  limit. 
The  old  judge  swears  that  it  is  his  dearest  ambition 
to  soak  the  boy  good  and  plenty  for  his  defiance  of 
Uncle  Sam's  laws — when  he  catches  him  at  it.  So 
far,  however,  the  only  times  that  the  Judge  has  had 
any  really  unimpeachable  evidence  in  point  was  when 
he  himself  was  a  passenger  in  Jack's  car!  Then,  he 
confesses,  he  couldn't  take  out  his  watch  because 
he  was  using  both  hands  to  hold  on.  Nor  would  the 
watch  have  been  of  any  use  anyhow,  he  further  ad- 
mits, for  they  were  going  so  fast  that  the  mile-posts 
looked  just  like  a  white  stone  wall,  with  a  very  im- 
pressionistic black  streak  along  near  the  top  where 
the  numbers  came! 

Not  so  far  behind  Jim  Bridger  and  his  telescopic 
glass  cliff,  that  little  touch  about  the  mile-posts. 
And  it  proves  that  John  Colter's  dash  from  his  In- 


116       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

dian  captors  can't  always  hope  to  stand  as  a  speed 
record.  Surely  it  is  good  to  know  that  the  best  of 
ancient  Yellowstone  tradition  is  being  so  well  main- 
tained. 

Jack  Haynes  drove  me  down  to  meet  Superintend- 
ent Horace  M.  Albright,  who  had  only  returned  to 
Mammoth  a  couple  of  hours  before  I  had  to  leave 
to  catch  my  train  at  Gardiner.  I  had  Mr.  Albright 
very  much  in  mind  when  I  tried  to  pay  the  most  fit- 
ting compliment  I  could  to  the  type  of  men  that  are 
being  drawn  to  the  National  Park  Service.  An  ever- 
ready  sneer  from  the  common  run  of  political  heelers 
for  the  man  in  office  who  is  trying  to  accomphsh  some- 
thing for  the  common  good  in  a  decent  and  honour- 
able manner  is  "impractical  idealist."  The  words  are 
all  but  inseparably  linked  from  long  usage.  Indeed, 
it  seems  rarely  to  occur  to  anybody  that  there  might 
be  such  a  thing  as  a  practical  idealist.  And  yet  just 
that  is  what  Horace  M.  Albright  impressed  me  as 
being;  and  such,  I  would  gather  from  all  I  can  learn, 
is  his  Chief,  Stephen  T.  Mather,  Director  of  the  Na- 
tional Park  Service.  No  one  will  question  that  they 
are  idealists,  I  daresay.  That  they  are  also  practical, 
I  doubt  not  that  very  strong  affirmative  admissions 
might  be  secured  from  a  number  of  baffled  politicians 
who  have  tried  to  encroach  upon  Yellowstone  Park 
with  power  and  irrigation  schemes. 


YELLOWSTONE  PARK    HEADQUARTERS    {AboVc) 

DIRECTOR   MATHER^  SECRETARY    OF   THE    INTERIOR   FALL,   AND   SUPERIN- 
TENDENT ALBRIGHT  CAMPING  (Center) 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE    117 

Captain  Chittenden,  writing  of  the  early  days  of 
the  Yellowstone,  speaks  of  the  menace  of  the  rail- 
ways— attempts  on  the  part  of  certain  companies  to 
build  into  or  through  the  Park  itself.  That  threat 
was  disposed  of  in  good  time.  The  railways  accepted 
the  "Thus  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther !"  as  final, 
built  as  close  as  practicable  to  the  boundaries,  and 
rested  content  with  allowing  transportation  within 
the  Park  to  be  carried  on  by  horse-drawn  vehicles, 
later  to  be  replaced  by  motor  busses.  The  menace 
of  the  railways  was  no  longer  heard  of,  but  in  time 
a  new  one  arose — that  of  the  power  and  irrigation  in- 
terests. This  hydra-headed  camel  tried  to  crawl  un- 
der the  flap  of  the  Park  tent  in  the  form  of  a  dam 
at  the  outlet  of  Yellowstone  Lake  for  the  ostensible 
purpose  of  preventing  floods  on  the  lower  river.  The 
bill  to  authorize  the  project  was  introduced  in  Con- 
gress by  Senator  Thomas  P.  Walsh  and  bears  his 
name.  Two  very  practical  idealists,  called  to  step 
into  the  breach  almost  at  a  moment's  notice,  were  able 
to  demolish  every  claim  made  for  the  measure  after 
scarcely  more  than  a  hurried  reading  of  it.  These 
two  were  Superintendent  Albright  and  George  E. 
Goodwin,  Chief  Engineer  of  the  National  Park  Serv- 
ice. Mr.  Albright,  practically  offhand,  showed  the 
falsity  or  the  fallacy  of  every  contention  made  in  the 
bill  as  regards  the  Park  itself,  but  perhaps  the  solar 


118       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

plexus  was  delivered  by  Mr.  Goodwin,  when  he  in- 
troduced figures  to  show  that  all  of  the  floods  on  the 
lower  river  came  a  month  previous  to  high  water  in 
Yellowstone  Lake — that  they  were  directly  due  in 
fact,  not  to  the  latter,  but  to  the  torrential  spring  dis- 
charges of  the  Big  Horn,  Tongue,  Powder  and  other 
tributaries  of  the  main  stream. 

This  blocked  the  measure  at  the  time,  and  equally 
telling  action  from  the  Department  of  Interior  has 
checked  every  subsequent  attempt  to  advance  it.  I 
should  really  like  to  know  the  particular  practical 
idealist  of  that  Department  who  dissected  a  circular 
letter  sent  out  under  Mr.  Walsh's  signature  to  his 
Congressional  colleagues.  Perhaps  it  was  Stephen 
T.  Mather  himself,  head  of  the  National  Park  Serv- 
ice. At  any  rate,  the  blows  dealt  were  so  sharp  and 
jolting  that  reading  the  statement  somehow  made 
me  think  of  a  man  walking  down  a  row  of  plaster 
images  and  cracking  them  with  a  hammer.  If  I  was 
not  certain  this  insincere  and  maladroitly  handled  bill 
would  not  be  at  rather  more  than  its  last  gasp  before 
these  pages  appear  in  print  I  would  write  more  about 
it — that  is,  against  it.  As  things  have  shaped,  how- 
ever, this  will  hardly  be  necessary. 

In  explaining  why  it  was  that  the  National  Park 
Service  had  rallied  its  forces  for  so  vigorous  a  de- 
fence of  the  citadel  against  the  Walsh  Bill,  Mr.  Al- 


PRESENT-DAY  YELLOWSTONE     119 

bright  quoted  the  words  of  John  Barton  Payne,  Sec- 
retary of  the  Interior  under  Wilson,  in  pushing  the 
Jones-Esch  Bill,  which  returned  the  national  parks 
and  monuments  to  the  sole  authority  of  Congress. 
Said  Mr.  Payne :  "When  once  you  establish  a  prin- 
ciple that  you  can  encroach  on  a  national  park  for 
irrigation  or  water  power,  you  commence  a  process 
which  will  end  only  in  the  commercialization  of  them 
all.  .  .  .  There  is  a  heap  more  in  this  world,"  he  con- 
cluded, "than  three  meals  a  day." 

I  was  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  see  more  of  Horace 
M.  Albright.  One  can  put  up  with  a  good  deal  of 
his  kind  of  practical  idealism. 


CHAPTER  II 

LIVINGSTON   TWENTY   YEARS  AFTER 

The  train  on  which  I  journeyed  from  the  Park  to 
Livingston  was  a  bit  late  in  getting  started  for  some 
reason,  as  a  consequence  of  which  it  was  trying  to 
make  up  the  lost  time  all  the  way.  It  was  a  decidedly 
rough  passage,  especially  on  the  curves  through  the 
rocky  walls  of  "Yankee  Jim's  Canyon."  Even 
so,  however,  I  reflected  that  the  careening  obser- 
vation car  was  making  a  lot  better  weather  of  it 
than  did  the  old  Kentucky  Mule  twenty  years 
before. 

Although  past  the  crest  of  its  spring  rise  by  nearly 
a  fortnight,  the  Yellowstone  was  considerably  higher 
than  the  early  May  stage  at  which  I  ran  it  before. 
Even  glimpsed  from  the  train  the  Canyon  impressed 
me  as  having  a  lot  of  very  rough  water — much  too 
rough  for  a  small  open  boat  to  run  right  through. 
With  frequent  landing  and  careful  lining,  however, 
it  looked  quite  feasible;  indeed,  on  arrival  at  Living- 
ston I  learned  that  a  couple  of  men  had  worked 
through  with  a  light  canoe  the  previous  Sunday. 
Letting  down  with  a  line  over  the  bad  places,  they 
took  about  an  hour  for  the  passage  of  the  roughest 

120 


LIVINGSTON  121 

two  miles  of  the  Canyon.  My  jaunt  through  in  and 
about  the  Mule  was  not  clocked.  Although  the  live- 
liness of  the  action  made  it  seem  longer,  I  doubt  if 
it  was  much  over  ten  minutes.  Nevertheless  I  was 
quite  content  not  to  have  to  chance  it  again,  especially 
as  a  trial  trip  for  a  new  type  of  boat. 

Livingston  is  located  at  the  bend  where  the  Yel- 
lowstone, after  running  north  from  the  Park  for  fifty 
miles,  breaks  from  the  mountains  and  begins  its  long 
easterly  course  to  the  Missouri  through  a  more  open 
valley.  This  was  the  point  at  which  Captain  Clark, 
temporarily  separated  from  Lewis  on  their  return 
journey  from  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia,  first  saw 
the  upper  Yellowstone.  He  had,  of  course,  passed 
its  mouth  when  proceeding  westward  by  the  Missouri 
the  previous  year.  It  was  now  his  purpose  to  ex- 
plore the  whole  length  of  such  of  the  river  as  flowed 
between  this  point  and  the  Missouri,  making  rendez- 
vous with  Lewis  at  some  point  below  its  mouth. 
Clark  had  come  from  the  Three  Forks  of  the  Missouri 
with  pack-train,  but  with  the  intention  of  building 
boats  and  taking  to  the  river  just  as  soon  as  trees 
large  enough  for  their  construction  could  be  found. 
Searching  every  flat  for  suitable  boat-timber,  the 
party  proceeded  down  the  north  bank  of  the  river, 
probably  pretty  well  along  the  route  followed  by 
General  Gibbon  seventy  years  later  in  the  campaign 


122       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

against  the  Sioux  which  culminated  to  the  Custer 
Massacre  on  the  Little  Big  Horn. 

The  previous  fall,  rapid  by  rapid,  I  had  run  the 
lower  Columbia  in  the  wake  of  Lewis  and  Clark. 
Now  I  was  turning  into  the  trail  of  the  Pathfinders 
again,  this  time  their  home  trail.  One  of  the  things 
that  I  had  been  anticipating  above  all  others  was  the 
delight  of  following  that  trail  to  its  end,  which  also 
had  been  its  beginning — St.  Louis.  I  knew  that 
there  was  going  to  be  something  of  Lewis  and  Clark 
for  me  in  every  mile  of  the  twenty-five  hundred — ^yes, 
and  of  many  another  who  had  followed  in  their  path. 
I  was  not  to  be  disappointed.  I  only  hope  I  am  not 
going  to  be  boring  in  telling  a  little  about  it.  I  trust 
not  too  much  so.  Darn  it,  a  man  can't  be  expected 
to  write  about  bootleggers,  and  "white  mule"  and 
home-brew  and  ultra-modern  institutions  all  the  time. 
Lewis  and  Clark  and  the  other  pioneers  of  the  North- 
west have  always  meant  a  lot  to  me.  I  simply  can't 
help  mentioning  them  now  and  again — but  I'll  try 
and  strike  a  balance  in  the  long  run. 

There  was  a  real  thrill  in  the  tablet  erected  by  the 
D.  A.  R.  near  the  Livingston  railway  station  com- 
memorating the  passing  of  Captain  Clark.  Perhaps 
there  will  be  no  fitter  place  for  me  to  acknowledge 
to  the  Daughters  of  the  Revolution  my  gratitude  for 
many  another  thrill  of  the  same  kind  similar  monu- 


LIVINGSTON  123 

merits  of  theirs  gave  me  all  the  way  to  the  end  of  my 
journey.  Now  it  was  the  defence  of  the  stockade 
at  Yankton  that  was  celebrated,  now  a  station  of  the 
Pony  Express  or  a  crossing  of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail 
in  Missouri,  now  a  post  on  some  old  Indian  road  at 
Natchez.  Always  they  were  modest  and  fitting,  and 
always  they  winged  a  thrill.  I  have  never  met  any 
live  Daughters  of  the  Revolution  to  recognize  them, 
but  I  am  sure  from  what  they  have  done  to  make  the 
river  way  pleasant  that  they  must  be  eminently  kindly 
folk,  like  the  philanthropists  who  erect  drinking  foun- 
tains for  man  and  beast  and  the  Burmans  who  put 
out  little  bird-houses  in  the  trees. 

Livingston  had  changed  a  lot  since  I  had  seen  it 
last — that  was  plain  before  my  train  had  swung 
round  the  long  bend  and  pulled  up  at  the  station. 
The  ball  ground  was  gone — pushed  right  across  the 
river  by  the  growth  of  the  town.  Many  old  land- 
marks were  missing,  and  the  main  street,  lined  with 
fine  new  modern  buildings,  had  shifted  a  whole  block 
west.  The  shade  trees  had  grown  until  they  arched 
above  the  clean,  cool  streets,  now  paved  from  one  end 
of  the  town  to  the  other.  Even  the  cottonwoods  by 
the  river  towered  higher  and  bulked  bigger  with  the 
twenty  new  rings  that  the  passing  years  had  built 
out  from  their  hearts.  There  was  a  new  Post  Office 
and  a  new  railway  station.     The  latter  was  a  hand- 


124       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

some,  sizable  structure,  well  worthy  of  the  important 
junction  which  it  served.  And  yet  that  station  wasn't 
quite  so  sizable  as  certain  of  the  local  boosters  would 
have  people  think.  Here,  verbatim,  is  what  I  read 
of  it  in  the  local  Chamber  of  Commerce  publication: 

**The  Northern  Placific  passenger  depot,  which  is 
the  largest  and  handsomest  structure  of  the  kind  on 
the  transcontinental  line  between  its  terminals,  domi- 
ciles a  large  number  of  general  and  division  officers 
and  covers  100  miles  East,  and  more  than  that  dis- 
tance West  on  two  lines  and  the  branch  railway  North 
from  this  city  and  also  the  line  running  South." 
Very  likely  that  word  covers  is  intended  to  refer  to 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  officials  housed  in  the  building, 
but  if  that  sentence  were  to  be  taken  literally  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  Grand  Central,  Liverpool  Street, 
the  Gare  du  Nord  and  a  few  score  more  of  the  world's 
great  terminals  might  be  chucked  under  those  hun- 
dred-mile easterly  and  westerly  wings  of  the  Living- 
ston station  and  never  be  found  again. 

Which  reminds  me  that  Kipling  also  found  the 
natives  making  some  pretty  big  claims  for  Living- 
ston. Something  over  thirty  years  previous  to  my 
latest  visit  he  had  stopped  there  overnight  on  his  way 
to  the  Yellowstone.  He  describes  it  as  a  little  cow- 
town  of  about  two  thousand.  Exhausting  its  re- 
sources in  a  short  stroll,  he  wandered  off  among  the 


LIVINGSTON  125 

hills,  narrowly  to  avoid  being  stepped  upon  by  a  herd 
of  stampeding  horses.  He  returned  to  the  town  to 
find  it  was  the  night  before  the  Fourth  of  July,  with 
much  carousing  and  large  talking  going  on.  His 
final  comment  was:  "They  raise  horses  and  m;inerals 
around  Livingston,  but  they  behave  as  though  they 
raised  cherubims  with  diamonds  in  their  wings." 

But  this  is  not  the  Livingston  of  the  present  day, 
nor  even  the  Livingston  that  I  loved  so  well  twenty 
years  syne.  Yes,  even  then  almost  the  only  ruffians 
and  carousers  were  the  imported  ball  players  and 
editors  and  "Calamity  Jane."  The  natives  were 
very  modest,  gentle  folk,  just  as  they  are  today. 
And  they  raised  several  things  besides  horses  and 
minerals — yea,  even  cherubims.  I  remember  that 
distinctly,  for  it  was  one  named  "Bunny,"  who 
worked  in  the  telephone  office,  that  knitted  me  a  pur- 
ple tie  which  I  kept  for  years — for  a  trunk-strap. 
It  stretched  and  stretched  and  stretched,  but  never 
weakened  or  faded.  Expressmen  and  other  vulgar 
people  used  to  think  there  was  a  bride  in  my  party 
on  account  of  that  purple  ribbon.  Bless  your  heart, 
"Bunny  I"  You'll  never  know  until  you  read  this 
confession  how  much  besides  that  rough,  red  neck  of 
mine  you  snared  in  the  loop  of  your  purple  tie. 

The  Livingston  Enterprise  had  grown  with  the 
town — that  was  evident  from  a  glance  at  the  first 


126       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

copy  to  fall  into  my  hands.  Quite  a  metropolitan 
daily  it  was,  with  Associated  Press  service,  sporting 
page  and  regular  boiler-plate  Fashion  Hint  stuff 
from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  The  Editor,  too,  was  a 
considerable  advance — ^^at  least  sartorially — over  the 
one  I  remembered.  Phillips  proved  a  mighty  engag- 
ing chap,  though,  and  didn't  seem  a  bit  ashamed  over 
having  had  me  for  a  predecessor.  People  spoke  of 
him  to  me  as  an  energetic  civic  and  temperance 
worker,  declaring  that  he  had  been  indefatigable  in 
his  eff*orts  to  put  down  drink  all  over  Park  County. 
They  called  his  vigorous  editorials  on  these  subjects 
"Phillipics."     They  were  noted  for  their  jolt. 

I  modestly  assured  him  that  I  couldn't  claim  to 
have  done  a  lot  for  temperance  during  the  time  I 
sat  in  his  chair,  but  that  I  had  taken  an  active  in- 
terest in  civic  reform.  And  then,  darn  him!  he  took 
down  the  year  1901  from  the  Enterprise  file.  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  that.  Well,  we  found  a  number 
of  columns  of  right  pert  comment  on  local  men, 
women  and  events  and  many  square  feet  of  baseball 
write-ups  that  Phillips  seemed  highly  tickled  over; 
but  of  civic  reform  editorials,  not  a  one.  Or  not 
quite  so  bad  as  that  perhaps.  It  may  be  that  a 
trenchant  leader  lashing  the  municipal  council  for 
neglecting  to  build  a  certain  badly  needed  sidewalk 
would  come  in  that  class.     It  was  a  sidewalk  to  the 


LIVINGSTON  127 

baseball  grounds.  How  well  I  remember  the  inspir- 
ation for  that  vitriolic  attack  on  the  City  Fathers! 
"Bunny"  lost -a  French-heeled  slipper  in  the  Yellow- 
stone gumbo  while  mincing  out  to  the  Helena  game 
and  swore  she  would  never  appear  at  the  Park  again 
unless  it  could  be  done  without  getting  muddied  to 
her  knees.  "Bunny"  was  very  outspoken  for  a  cher- 
ubim. In  those  days  it  took  an  outspoken  girl  to 
mention  anything  between  her  shoe-tops  and  her 
pompadour. 

I  liked  Editor  Phillips  so  well  that  I  forthwith 
asked  him  to  join  me  for  my  first  day's  run  down  the 
river.  He  said  he  was  highly  complimented,  but  that 
there  were  a  number  of  reasons  why  he  would  not  be 
able  to  accept.  The  only  one  of  these  I  recall  was 
that  the  water  was  far  too  loosely  packed  between 
Livingston  and  Big  Timber.  Western  editors  are 
always  picturesque,  and  PJiillips  was  one  of  ^e  best 
of  his  kind.  He  mentioned  two  or  three  others  who 
might  be  induced  to  join  me  for  a  day  or  two.  One 
of  these  was  Joe  Evans,  curio  dealer  and  trapper. 
I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  it  was  Phillips  or  some 
one  else  who  recommended  "Buckskin  Jim"  Cutler 
as  the  best  hand  with  a  boat  on  the  upper  river.  It 
took  some  groping  in  my  memory  to  place  the  name, 
but  finally  I  found  it  pigeon-holed  as  that  of  the  man 
"Yankee  Jim"  had  spoken  of  in  the  same  connection 


128       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

twenty  years  before.  I  had  in  mind  trying  to  get 
in  touch  with  Cutler,  but  gave  up  the  idea  the  mo- 
ment I  discovered  Pete  Holt,  former  Government 
Scout  and  my  first  guide  through  the  Yellowstone, 
holding  down  the  job  of  Chief  of  Police  of  Living- 
ston. Holt's  furious  pace  on  ski  had  resulted  in 
my  leaving  jagged  fragments  of  cuticle  on  most  of 
the  trees  and  much  of  the  crust  along  the  Yellow- 
stone Grand  Tour.  Here  was  a  chance  to  lead  a 
measure  or  two  of  the  dance  myself.  Pete  had  ideas 
of  his  own  about  the  looseness  with  which  the  water 
was  packed  below  Livingston,  but  was  too  good  a 
sport  to  let  that  interfere  with  my  pleasure.  Indeed, 
he  even  went  out  of  his  way  to  make  his  trip  official. 
Two  people — a  man  and  a  woman — had  been 
drowned  in  the  Yellowstone  the  previous  week.  He 
ordered  himself  to  go  in  search  of  them  in  my  boat, 
hiring  Joe  Evans,  with  his  canvas  canoe,  to  accom- 
pany us  as  scout  and  pilot.  The  arrangement  was 
ideal.  Joe  knew  the  best  channel — so  I  took  it  for 
granted, — ^which  would  leave  me  nothing  to  do  but 
trail  his  wake  and  manage  my  new  and  untried  boat. 
Holt's  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  in  the  stern  would 
give  that  ballast  just  where  I  needed  it.  The  lack 
of  serious  responsibilities  would  give  us  a  chance  for 
a  good  old  yarn  while,  watching  my  chances,  I  could 


LIVINGSTON  129 

pick  favourable  riffles  and  pay  back  my  friend  in  his 
own  coin  the  debt  of  twenty  years  standing. 

It  was  a  great  disappointm)ent  to  find  no  one  of  my 
old  baseball  team-mates  still  in  Livingston.  Jack 
Mjelde,  Captain  and  second-baseman,  had  been  killed 
in  an  electrical  accident.  That  was  a  typically  capri- 
cious trick  of  Fate.  As  I  recall  things  now,  Jack — 
a  family  man  with  a  real  job,  and  a  legitimate  resi- 
dent of  Livingston — was  about  the  most  worth  pre- 
serving of  the  lot  of  us.  Ed  Ray  had  dropped  in 
and  out  of  town  on  brake-beams  every  now  and  then, 
and  so  had  two  or  three  others.  Paddy  Ryan,  pitcher 
and  the  gentlest  mannered  of  us  all,  was  believed  to 
be  still  a  bar-keeper — somewhat  surreptitiously  of 
course.  Riley,  the  never  more  than  semi-Keeley- 
cured  catcher,  had  last  been  heard  of  over  Missoula 
way,  and  looking  rather  fit  now  that  there  was  a  more 
or  less  closed  season  on  his  favourite  quarry — mauve 
mice. 

And  so  it  went.  A  score  or  more  of  old-timers 
who  had  seen  me  play  turned  up  at  the  hotel,  but 
only  one  of  these  brought  a  real  thrill.  That  was  a 
husky  chap  of  about  thirty,  who  said  he  had  been 
admitted  to  the  park  once  for  retrieving  a  home-run 
I  had  swatted  over  the  fence  in  a  game  against  Ana- 
conda.    "Gosh,  how  you  could  line  'em  out,  boy," 


130       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

volunteered  some  one,  and  grunts  of  assent  ran  back 
and  forth  through  the  crowd.  That  was  all  very  nice, 
of  course;  but  I  would  have  enjoyed  it  a  lot  more 
if  I  could  have  been  quite  sure  that  none  of  them  had 
been  present  the  time  we  played  Red  Lodge  on 
Miner's  Union  Day.  This  was  the  morning  after 
the  Fireman's  Ball  of  the  night  before.  I  beheve 
I  could  see  the  ball  all  right.  Indeed,  that  was  just 
the  trouble.  I  saw  too  many  balls  and  couldn't 
swing  my  bat  against  the  right  one.  I  struck  out 
three  times  running.  The  fourth  time  up  I  con- 
nected for  a  mighty  wallop,  but  only  to  get  put  out 
through  starting  for  third  base  instead  of  first! 

Pete  Nelson,  Sheriff  of  my  former  visit  and  now 
State  Game  Warden,  called  for  me  at  the  hotel  and 
together  we  strolled  down  the  old  main  street  to  the 
river.  We  had  dubbed  it  "The-Street-That-is- 
Called-Straight."  Just  why  I  fail  to  remember,  but 
probably  some  of  us  wanted  to  show  his  biblical  learn- 
ing. Riley,  the  Keeley-ed  catcher,  confessed  it  never 
had  looked  straight  to  him,  and  there  were  times — 
especially  late  on  the  nights  we  had  won  games — ^that 
I  had  doubts  on  that  score  myself.  But  if  there  had 
been  crooks  in  or  upon  it  in  the  old  days,  time  had 
ironed  them  out.  I  especially  called  Nelson's  atten- 
tion to  the  Northern  Pacific  station  at  one  end  of 


LIVINGSTON  131 

the  vista,  the  nodding  cottonwoods  at  the  other,  and 
the  glaring  new  concrete  pavement,  stretching 
straight  as  a  white  ribbon,  connecting  them  up. 

Pete  Nelson  sadly  called  my  attention  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  all  the  gay  old  palaces  of  carousal  had 
been  converted,  and  said  he  reckoned  that  perhaps 
every  one  that  had  patronized  them  had  undergone 
the  same  change.  I  was  also  sad,  but  less  optimistic 
than  Pete  respecting  the  increasing  purpose  of  the 
ages.  As  we  leaned  on  the  rail  of  the  river  bridge 
and  gazed  at  the  swift  green  current  I  tried  to  recall 
those  lines  of  Stevenson's  which  began: 

**Sing  me  a  song  of  a  boy  that  is  gone — 
Ah,  could  that  lad  be  I!" 

and  which  conclude: 

"All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair, 
All  that  was  me  is  gone.'* 

I  couldn't  remember  the  part  that  I  craved,  and  so 

fell  back  on: 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

That  didn't  quite  do,  either,  for  Tennyson  was  gaz- 
ing on  fading  fields  and  thinking  of  Autimm,  and 


132       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

I  was  gazing  on  budding  cottonwoods  and  thinking 
of  Spring — Spring  1  And  yet  it  was  a  Spring  that 
was  gone. 

"Pete,"  I  said  moodily,  turning  a  gloomy  eye  to 
the  seaward-rushing  flood,  "there's  a  lot  of  water  gone 
under  this  bridge  never  to  return,  since  you  and  I 
stood  here  last."  The  ex- Sheriff  nodded  in  dreary 
acquiescence.  "And,  boy,"  he  remarked  with  the 
weariness  of  the  ages  in  his  voice  as  he  rubbed  a  fin- 
ger up  and  down  the  bridge  of  a  blue,  cold  nose  that 
I  remembered  as  having  once  glowed  with  all  the 
hues  of  a  sunset  over  the  colour-splashed  gorge  of 
the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone;  "boy,  water 
ain't  the  only  thing  that's  gone  never  to  return." 

Arm  in  arm,  as  we  had  navigated  "The-Street- 
That-is- Called- Straight"  in  ancient  of  days,  we 
wended  our  way  back  town-ward  through  the  gloom- 
drenched  dusk.  By  devious  ways  and  obscure  Pete 
piloted,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  introduce 
me  to  certain  friends  as  the  boy  who  helped  Living- 
ston cop  the  state  champeenship  twenty  years  ago. 
We  were  treated  with  great  deference  all  along  the 
way.  There  was  the  glint  of  a  twinkle  in  the  ex- 
SheriiRan  eye  as  Pete  delivered  me  at  the  hotel. 
"That  was  just  to  show  you,  boy,  that  Gilead  is  not 
yet  quite  drained  of  Bahn,"  he  said,  patting  me  on 
the  back.     "Until  they  give  the  screw  a  few  more 


LIVINGSTON  133 

turns,  life  in  little  old  Livingston  wiU  not  be  entirely 
without  its  compensayshuns." 

I  had  dinner  and  spent  the  evening  with  Pete 
Holt's  family,  and  a  mighty  wholesome  interval  it 
was  after  an  afternoon  so  wild  with  old  regrets. 
Holt  had  always  been  a  teetotaler,  and  so,  with 
nothing  much  to  lose,  faced  an  unclouded  future. 
Whether,  as  Chief  of  Police,  he  has  ever  given  those 
much-dreaded  turns  to  the  screws  that  would  crush 
the  last  lees  of  pleasure  from  sanguine  grapes  of  pain 
I  have  never  heard.  It  made  me  think  of  Guelph 
and  Ghibelline,  this  finding  my  old-time  friends  thus 
arrayed  against  one  another.  And  good  old  Peter 
Nelson — I  am  wondering,  when  cock-crow  sounds, 
if  he  will  be  found  denying  or  denied. 

•  ••••••• 

"Buckskin  Jim"  Cutler,  premier  river  man  of  the 
upper  Yellowstone,  came  down  to  Livingston  the 
evening  before  the  morning  I  had  scheduled  for  my 
departure.  It  had  been  rumoured  for  a  couple  of 
days  that  he  would  arrive — some  said  to  respond  to  a 
legal  summons,  others  that  he  had  heard  I  had  in- 
quired for  him  and  was  hoping  to  sign  on  with  me 
for  my  river  voyage.  I  have  never  been  able  to  make 
sure  either  way.  Certainly  he  had  been  summoned 
to  court  over  some  dispute  with  a  neighbour,  while  I 
have  never  had  definite  assurance  that  he  had  received 


134       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

any  word  of  my  trip.  I  could  not  have  taken  him 
far  in  any  event,  as  I  had  no  need  of  help  once  my 
boat  was  given  a  thorough  trying  out. 

Cutler's  arrival  in  Livingston  was  sudden  and  tra- 
gic, as  is  always  the  case  when  the  Yellowstone  takes 
a  hand  in  real  earnest.  My  boat  had  been  set  up 
in  a  blacksmith  shop  on  the  river,  at  the  foot  of  the 
main  street.  Going  down  there  just  before  dinner 
to  make  sure  that  everything  was  ship-shape  for  the 
start  on  the  morrow,  I  found  the  place  deserted,  while 
there  was  a  considerable  gathering  of  people  on  the 
next  bridge  below.  Starting  in  that  direction,  I  met 
one  of  the  helpers,  breathing  hard  and  deathly  white, 
hurrying  back  to  the  deserted  shop. 

"Mighty  hard  luck,"  he  ejaculated  brokenly  be- 
tween breaths.  "Man  just  came  down  past  shop — in 
river — yelling  for  help.  Didn't  hear  him  till  he  got 
by.  Half  a  minute  sooner,  and  I  could  have  yanked 
out  your  light  boat — all  set  up — and  picked  him  up. 
Hear  they've  just  got  him  down  by  the  next  bridge 
— but  'fraid  he's  croaked.     Cussed  hard  luck." 

They  were  carrying  a  man  to  a  waiting  auto  as 
I  approached  the  crowd.  "Yep — drowned,"  I  heard 
some  one  say;  "but  he  made  a  hell  of  a  fight.  That 
was  old  *Buckskin  Jim'  to  the  last  kick — always 
fighting."  My  glimpse  of  the  rugged  face  and  drip- 
ping form  was  of  the  briefest,  but  amply  reassuring 


LIVINGSTON  135 

as  to  the  truth  of  the  statement  I  had  overheard.  It 
was  the  frame  of  a  man  that  could  put  up  a  hell  of 
a  fight,  and  the  face  of  a  man  who  would — a  real 
river-rat  if  there  ever  was  one. 

Next  morning's  issue  of  the  Livingston  Enterprise^ 
which  bore  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  its  front 
page  a  modest  announcement  of  my  departure,  on 
its  upper  right-hand  corner  carried  a  prominently- 
featured  account  of  Jim  Cutler's  last  run  on  the  Yel- 
lowstone. As  it  contains  about  all  I  have  ever  been 
able  to  learn  in  connection  with  the  tragic  finish  of 
a  character  who,  in  1901  as  in  1921,  was  recommended 
to  me  as  the  best  river  hand  on  the  upper  Yellow- 
stone, I  reproduce  the  latter  in  full  herewith. 

"BUCKSKIN  JIM"  CUTLER 

USES  RAFT  AND  DIES  IN 

FIGHT  WITH  YELLOWSTONE. 

LACKING  FUNDS  TO  PAY  FOR  TRANSPOR- 
TATION FROM  CARBELLA  TO  LIVINGSTON, 
PIONEER  MAKES  PERILOUS  TRIP  OF  40 
MILES  DOWN  RIVER  ONLY  TO  WAGE  LOSING 
BATTLE  WITH  WATER  AS  HE  PREPARED 
TO  END  JOURNEY. 

Without  funds  to  pay  for  transporation  which  would 
bring  him  into  court  as  defendant  in  a  water  case,  R.  E.  Cut- 
ler, Justice  of  the  Peace  at  Carbella,  and  known  throughout 


136       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Park  County  as  "Buckskin  Jim,"  elected  to  travel  the  40 
miles  to  Livingston  on  a  small  raft  yesterday  and  after  rid- 
ing the  flood  until  he  could  leap  ashore  here  he  was  pitched 
into  the  river  by  an  overhanging  limb  and  after  struggling 
with  the  current  for  half  a  mile  died  either  from  drowning 
or  the  exertion  of  his  fight. 

Of  massive  physique  Cutler  made  a  wonderful  fight  for 
life  despite  his  65  years.  A  tree  limb  on  the  upper  end  of 
McLeod  Island  knocked  the  voyager  from  his  raft.  Crying 
for  help  he  attempted  to  reach  the  shore,  only  a  few  feet 
away.  Beneath  the  Main  Street  bridge,  down  past  the  tour- 
ist camp  packed  with  tents  and  travellers  and  down  river 
to  C  Street,  Cutler  was  seen  battling  with  the  high  water. 

TONER  CATCHES  BODY 

Near  C  Street  he  was  forced  to  give  up  the  fight.  He 
sank  but  reappeared  a  short  distance  above  the  H  Street 
Bridge.  A.  T.  Toner,  local  contractor,  swam  out  from  the 
H  Street  Bridge  and  caught  the  floating  body.  Earl  Kirby, 
mail  carrier,  assisted  him.  Miss  Jane  Wright,  nurse 
at  the  Park  Hospital,  was  driving  by  and  took  charge  of 
the  work  of  trying  to  restore  life.  Dr.  P.  L.  Green  was 
called  and  arrived  in  a  few  minutes.  But  all  efforts  were 
without  success  and  death  won. 

Doubt  as  to  the  cause  of  death  was  voiced  by  officials. 
Some  held  the  opinion  that  the  deceased  died  from  over  ex- 
ertion, shock  or  heart  trouble  resulting  from  his  terrific  fight 
against  the  current  for  a  distance  of  more  than  half  a  mile 
rather  than  drowning. 

Johnnie  Doran,  who  was  fishing  near  the  head  of  McLeod 
Island  saw  Cutler  knocked  from  the  raft  and  hurried  to  give 


LIVINGSTON  137 

the  alarm.  Numerous  residents  along  the  banks  of  the 
river  discovered  him  fighting  his  way  down  stream  and  nu- 
merous calls  were  sent  to  the  city  and  county  authorities. 
He  seemed  unable  to  make  the  bank  but  remained  above 
water  for  more  than  four  blocks. 

TOLD  GILBERT  OF  TRIP 

Cutler  was  served  with  a  summons  to  appear  in  Livingston 
tomorrow  to  answer  to  an  order  to  show  cause  in  a  irriga- 
tion ditch  dispute.  When  Deputy  Sheriff  Clarence  Gilbert 
served  the  papers  Mr.  Cutler  promised  to  appear  but  he 
informed  the  sheriff  that  he  had  no  funds  and  would  probably 
have  to  make  the  trip  in  a  boat  or  on  a  raft.  The  officer 
did  not  take  the  remark  seriously  until  Cutler  was  lifted 
from  the  river  about  6  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon. 

The  deceased  had  been  a  prominent  resident  of  Paradise 
Valley  for  many  years.  The  Cutler  hill  on  the  road  from 
Gardiner  to  Livingston  was  named  after  the  dead  man.  He 
is  survived  by  seven  sons  and  one  daughter  besides  his  wife. 
Carbella  residents  reported  that  the  deceased  started  down 
river  early  yesterday  on  a  small  raft  intending  to  land  at 
Livingston. 


CHAPTER  III 

LIVINGSTON   TO   BIG  TIMBER 

As  I  had  planned  my  Yellowstone-to-New-Or- 
leans  voyage  as  a  strictly  one-man  trip  the  ruling  con- 
sideration I  had  had  in  mind  in  ordering  my  outfit 
was  lightness  and  compactness.  I  hoped  also  to  find 
serviceability  in  combination  with  these  other  qualifi- 
cations, but  the  latter  were  the  things  that  I  insisted 
on  in  advance.  Serviceabihty  could  only  be  proved 
by  use.  So  I  simply  combed  the  sporting  magazine 
pages,  picked  out  the  lightest,  tightest  boat,  engine, 
tent,  sleeping  bag  and  other  stuff  I  needed  and  let 
it  go  at  that  for  a  starter.  No  article  that  I  ordered 
was  of  a  type  I  had  ever  used  before.  If  anything 
failed  to  stand  up  under  use  I  knew  that  some  sort  of 
substitute  could  be  provided  along  the  way.  That  is 
one  distinct  advantage  boating  on  the  upper  Yellow- 
stone has  over  tackling  such  a  stretch  as  the  Big 
Bend  of  the  Columbia  in  Canada,  or  the  remoter 
waters  of  any  of  the  great  South  American,  African 
or  Asian  rivers. 

First  and  last,  of  course,  my  boat  was  the  main  con- 
sideration.    I  knew  that  I  could  get  on  with  a  wooden 

138 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     139 

boat  as  a  last  resort,  for  I  had  handled  one  alone 
over  three  hundred  miles  of  the  lower  Columbia  the 
previous  season.  But  I  wanted  to  give  at  least  a  try- 
out  to  something  lighter  than  wood.  I  was  certain 
there  would  be  many  occasions  when  my  ability  to 
take  my  boat  completely  out  of  the  water  might  be 
the  means  of  saving  it  from  swamping,  and  possibly 
complete  destruction.  I  also  knew  there  would  be 
many  places  where  such  things  as  mud  or  too  steep 
a  slope  to  the  bank  would  make  this  quite  out  of 
the  question  with  a  wooden  boat  weighing  three  hun- 
dred pounds  or  more.  Lightness,  also,  would  mean 
easier  pulling  as  well  as  greater  mileage  for  the  same 
amount  of  engine  power. 

Investigation  showed  that  the  only  practicable  al- 
ternatives to  wood  were  steel  and  canvas.  Canvas  is 
extremely  light  and  fairly  strong,  and  there  are  oc- 
casions— such  as  a  journey  on  which  both  overland 
and  water  travel  are  combined — ^when  a  properly 
designed  folding  canvas  boat  is  incomparably  prefer- 
able to  any  other.  This  is  the  case,  however,  only 
when  there  are  frequent  and  difficult  portages  and 
very  considerable  distances  by  land  to  be  traversed. 
On  a  comparatively  unbroken  river  voyage  the  soft- 
ness, the  lack  of  rigidity,  of  a  folding  canvas  boat 
fail  by  a  big  margin  to  compensate  for  its  lightness. 
This  consideration  eliminated  canvas  for  my  purpose. 


140       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

though  I  readily  grant  its  usefulness  under  conditions 
favourable  to  it. 

That  committed  me  to  steel.  I  found  various  types 
on  the  market,  and  after  several  weeks  of  writing  and 
wiring  decided  to  take  my  chance  with  a  fourteen- 
foot  sectional  skiff  put  out  by  the  D arrow  Boat  Com- 
pany of  Albion,  Michigan.  The  model  I  ordered 
weighed  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  according  to 
the  catalogue,  and  was  amply  stiff  and  strong.  I 
was  willing  to  take  the  catalogue's  word  on  the  score 
of  weight;  the  matter  of  strength  would  have  to  be 
proved.  The  company  admitted  they  made  no  boat 
specially  designed  for  rough-water  work,  and  sug- 
gested it  might  be  best  to  build  me  one  to  order  with 
a  higher  side.  I  knew  that  four  inches  more  side 
would  be  better  than  two,  but  didn't  feel  that  I  could 
spare  the  ten  days  the  job  would  require.  That  was 
the  reason  I  was  taking  a  chance  with  a  stock  model 
that  is  probably  most  used  for  duck-hunting  on  lakes 
and  marshes.  My  only  reason  for  ordering  a  sec- 
tional type  was  the  very  considerable  saving  in  express 
on  account  of  the  comparatively  small  amount  of 
space  required  for  the  knocked-down  boat  in  ship- 
ment. 

I  must  confess  that  my  first  sight  of  the  crated  boat 
in  the  express  ofiice  at  Livingston  was  a  bit  of  a  shock. 
There  was  no  question  about  the  lightness  of  it,  to  be 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     141 

sure — I  could  pick  it  up,  crate  and  all  with  one  hand. 
Rather,  indeed,  it  looked  to  me  too  light.  I  did  not 
see  how  material  so  thin  could  withstand  a  collision 
with  a  sharp,  mid-stream  boulder  without  puncturing. 
But  that  was  of  less  concern  to  me  than  the  lack  of 
freeboard.  After  the  big  hatteaux  and  Peterboros  I 
had  used  on  the  Columbia  the  previous  year  this 
bright  little  tin  craft  looked  hke  a  child's  toy.  Nor 
was  there  any  comfort  in  the  agent's  run  of  patter 
as  he  stood  by  during  my  inspection.  All  the  boat 
people  in  town  had  been  in  to  see  it.  No  end 
of  opinions  about  it,  but  all  agreed  on  one  thing — 
that  it  wouldn't  do  to  allow  it  be  launched  in  the 
river.  No  one  but  a  lunatic  would  think  of  such  a 
thing,  of  course.  Still  just  that  kind  of  lunatics  had 
been  turning  up  every  now  and  then;  so  many,  in- 
deed, that  there  was  talk  of  erecting  some  kind  of  a 
trap  down  Big  Timber  way  to  catch  the  bodies.  But 
I  didn't  look  like  that  kind  of  a  nut.  In  fact,  the 
agent  was  more  inclined  to  believe  that  I  was  one  of 
them  rich  fellows  from  St.  Paul  that  had  a  hunting 
lodge  up  in  the  Rockies. 

I  had  the  crate  in*  a  truck  by  this  time.  The  agent's 
face  was  a  study  when  I  gave  the  curt  order:  "Black- 
smith shop  on  river — foot  of  Main  Street."  His  was 
all  old  stuff,  of  course.  I  had  heard  some  variation 
of  it  on  every  stream  I  had  boated  between  the 


142       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Yangtse  and  the  Parana.  Noah  must  have  gone 
through  a  barrage  of  the  same  sort  the  day  he  laid  the 
ikeel  of  the  Ark.  It  didn't  bother  me  a  bit ;  but  at  the 
same  time  there  was  nothing  cheering  in  it.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  had  still  to  make  up  my  own  mind  as 
to  just  how  much  of  the  river  those  fourteen-inch 
sides  were  going  to  exclude  in  a  really  rough-tum- 
bling rapid.  However,  it  wasn't  the  sporting  thing  to 
do  to  abandon  ship  while  ship  was  still  in  two  pieces, 
one  inside  of  the  other,  in  a  crate.  I  would  wait  at 
least  until  it  was  set  up  before  arriving  at  any  final 
verdicts.  Perhaps  I  would  even  give  it  a  trial  in  the 
water.  There  was  a  quiet  eddy  under  the  blacksmith 
shop,  and  I  could  play  safe  by  bending  on  a  line  and 
having  some  one  keep  hold  of  it  in  a  pinch. 

Joe  Evans,  the  curio  dealer,  rushed  out,  bare- 
headed, as  I  drove  past  his  shop  in  the  truck,  to  head 
me  off  from  going  to  the  river.  A  stranger  could 
have  no  idea  how  treacherous  the  Yellowstone  was, 
he  urged.  Two  drownded  in  it  already  that  week.  If 
I  must  go  ahead  in  that  little  tin  pan  of  a  boat,  much 
better  to  ship  it  to  Miles  City  or  Glendive  and  put  in 
below  the  worst  rapids.  From  Livingston  to  Big 
Timber  would  be  sheer  suicide,  especially  for  a  ten- 
derfoot in  a  duck-boat.  Nobody  knew  that  better 
than  he  did,  for  he  had  trapped  all  along  the  way. 
He  was  quite  disinterested  in  warning  me  thus.     In- 


a 


ma 


"^m 


THE   BLACKSMITH  SHOP   WHERE  MY  BOAT   WAS  SET  UP    {AboVe) 
WE  LAUNCHED  THE  BOAT  BELOW  THE   LIVINGSTON   BRIDGE    {Center) 
A  DIFFICULT  RIFFLE  BELOW  SPRINGDALE  {Below) 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER      143 

deed,  it  was  all  in  his  favour  to  have  me  start.  The 
county  paid  him  twenty-five  dollars  a  day  for  hunting 
for  dead  bodies  in  the  river,  with  twenty-five  more 
as  bonus  for  every  one  he  found.  So  I  would  see  it 
was  all  to  his  interest  to  increase  the  spring  crop  of 
floaters ;  but  he  was  a  humane  man,  and —  Thus  Joe, 
at  some  length  and  with  considerable  vehemence. 

I  was  chuckling  to  myself  all  the  time  Joe  rattled 
on.  The  priceless  old  chap  had  been  in  business  at 
the  same  stand  twenty  years  ago,  but  it  was  plain  he 
did  not  recognize  me  as  the  first-baseman  of  the  Liv- 
ingston champeen  nine.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was 
just  as  glad  that  he  didn't — right  there  before  the 
truck-driver  at  least.  For  I  had  some  recollection  of 
having  been  with  our  brake-beam-riding  right  fielder 
the  evening  "Lefty"  Clancy  tried  to  to  palm  a  moss 
agate  out  of  one  of  Joe's  trays — and  got  caught.  Joe 
made  "Lefty"  disgorge,  and  then  delivered  himself 
of  remarks  more  pointed  than  polite  respecting  the 
morals  of  Livingston's  imported  ball-players. 

As  I  have  intimated,  I  didn't  care  to  have  that 
episode  dragged  out  before  the  truck-driver,  who 
might  have  passed  it  right  on  to  Pete  Holt  and  Edi- 
tor Phillips.  So  I  just  sat  tight  for  the  moment, 
thanked  Joe  for  his  warnings  and  drove  on  when  he 
got  out  of  breath.  But  late  that  afternoon  I  went 
to  his  shop  and  made  a  clean  breast  of  everything.     I 


144       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

confessed  about  the  moss  agate,  and  also  to  the  fact 
that  I  was  the  youth  who  held  the  steering  paddle  for 
Sydney  Lamartine  the  time  the  still  unbroken  river 
record  of  six  hours  to  Big  Timber  was  put  up. 
Then  we  both  grinned,  shook  hands  and  apolo- 
gized to  each  other.  I  apologized  to  Joe  for 
seeming  to  have  aided  and  abetted  "Lefty"  in 
trying  to  get  away  with  the  moss  agate,  and  Joe 
apologized  to  me  for  that  warning  about  the  Yellow- 
stone. There  was  a  delicate  and  subtle  compliment 
in  his  handsome  admission  that  he  felt  that  his  was 
the  greater  wrong,  even  allowing  for  the  fact  that 
there  were  still  two  or  three  moss  agates  missing  when 
he  finally  checked  over  the  tray.  In  this  latter  con- 
nection, Joe  said  that  for  a  year  or  two  he  had  the 
feeling  that  he  had  made  a  tactical  error  in  not  turn- 
ing out  my  pockets  as  well  as  "Lefty's"  when  he 
made  his  search.  Then,  one  day,  "Lefty"  came  in 
and  sold  him  back  the  agates.  "I  didn't  say  any- 
thing," said  Joe  with  a  chuckle.  "Just  paid  him  a 
dollar  apiece  for  the  streakies,  and  then  turned  about 
and  sold  him  for  ten  dollars  'an  old  Colt's  that  had 
laid  under  the  snow  all  winter  and  wasn't  worth  six- 
bits.  It  seemed  to  me  the  kinder  way,"  he  concluded. 
Of  course  a  man  of  so  mellow  and  inclusive  a 
charity  as  that  was  easy  for  me  to  become  fond  of. 
Joe  and  I  made  friends  quickly,  and  he  fell  in  very 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     145 

readily  with  the  plan  to  go  along  in  his  canvas  boat 
when  I  started  and  help  Pete  Holt  look  for  the  two 
floaters. 

Ten  minutes  sufficed  to  knock  off  the  crate  and 
set  the  boat  up  on  the  floor  of  the  blacksmith  shop. 
It  consisted  of  a  bow  and  a  stern  section,  each  about 
seven  feet  in  length  and  provided  with  a  thwart  and 
a  water-tight  compartment.  Indeed,  each  section  was 
really  a  complete  boat  in  itself,  awkward  in  shape, 
to  be  sure,  yet  something  that  would  float  on  an  even 
keel  and  which  could  be  propelled  by  oars  or  pad- 
dles. Bolting  these  two  sections  together  produced 
a  fourteen-foot  skiff  of  astonishingly  good  lines.  The 
sides,  it  is  true,  were  inches  lower  than  I  would  liked 
to  have  had  them,  but  there  was  something  distinctly 
heartening  in  the  fine  flare  of  the  bows  and  the  pro- 
nounced sheer  of  the  little  craft.  Heartening,  also, 
was  the  comment  of  the  helper  working  to  patch  up 
a  gunwale  smashed  in  transit.  He  said  it  was  the 
darndest  hard  tin  he  ever  tried  to  put  a  drill  through. 
Equally  reassuring  was  the  blacksmith's  complaint 
over  the  trouble  he  was  having  in  hammering  out  a 
number  of  little  dents.  I  may  as  well  add  here  that 
that  transit-crushed  gunwale  was  the  worst  scar  my 
pretty  tin  toy  was  to  show  when  I  docked  it  finally  in 
St.  Louis  after  bumping  something  like  2500  miles 
down  the  Yellowstone  and  Missouri. 


146      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

The  bright  httle  shallop  looked  so  inherently  water- 
worthy  that  I  dragged  it  down  to  the  river  and 
jumped  in  without  further  misgivings.  Its  lightness 
was  highly  refreshing,  especially  when  I  remembered 
the  back-breaking  job  it  had  been  dragging  for  only 
a  few  feet  the  wooden  skiff  I  had  used  on  the  lower 
Columbia.  Built  to  be  pulled  from  the  forward  sec- 
tion, carrying  its  load  aft,  it  was  down  heavily  by  the 
head  until  I  trimmed  ship  by  taking  in  the  black- 
smith. My  own  sodden  two  hundred  and  forty 
pounds  still  brought  it  a  bit  too  low  by  the  bows,  but 
I  readily  saw  how  the  weight  of  my  outfit  and  bal- 
last would  correct  this  until  I  shipped  my  outboard 
motor  at  Bismarck.  The  trial  was  eminently  satis- 
factory. I  dodged  back  and  forth  across  the  cur- 
rent, ran  a  short  riffle,  and  then  swung  round  and 
pulled  right  back  up  through  it.  Some  water  was 
shipped,  but  not  enough  to  bother.  There  would  be 
no  dearth  of  dampness  in  the  real  rapids,  I  could 
see;  but  those  air-chambers  should  float  her  through 
in  one  way  or  another,  and  water  was  easily  dumped 
at  the  first  eddy. 

When,  on  pulling  up  to  the  bank  to  land,  I  tossed 
the  painter  to  some  one  waiting  below  the  blacksmith 
shop,  I  acknowledged  the  proper  sex  of  the  little  craft 
for  the  first  time.  "Catch  the  line  and  ease  her  in!" 
was  what  I  said,  or  something  to  that  effect.     That 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     147 

meant  she  had  convinced  me  that  she  was  a  regular  fel- 
low— that  I  was  quite  game  to  trust  myself  out  alone 
with  her  day  or  night.  And  that  is  just  what  I  did, 
and  for  something  like  sixty  or  seventy  days  and 
nights.  Saucy  and  spirited,  and  at  times  wilful,  as 
she  proved  to  be,  that  confidence  was  never  betrayed. 

Late  that  afternoon  Pete  Nelson  called  on  me  at 
the  hotel,  heading  a  delegation  from  the  Park  County 
Chamber  of  Commerce  with  the  request  that  I  per- 
mit the  name  of  Livingston,  Montana,  to  be  painted 
upon  my  boat.  Pete's  inherent  delicacy  must  have 
made  him  sense  the  fact  that  operating  as  a  sand- 
wich-man in  any  form  was  the  one  thing  above  all 
others  from  which  my  shrinking  nature  recoiled. 
Turning  his  hat  nervously  in  his  hands,  the  spokes- 
man went  on  to  explain  and  expatiate. 

"Livingston  was  also  the  name  of  a  great  explorer. 
You're  a  sort  of  explorer  yourself,  boy.  Kind  of  ap- 
propriate to  unite  the  two  ideas.  Would  also  let  the 
folks  down  river  know  that  the  little  old  town  was 
right  on  the  map.  Full  of  enterprise,  too,  sending  its 
emissaries  on  4000-mile  river  voyages.  .  .  ." 

"Back  up,  Pete,"  I  cut  in.  "This  little  voyage  is 
my  own  idea,  not  Livingston's.  But  go  to  it  with 
the  paint  if  you  really  think  it  will  turn  any  settlers 
this  way.  This  little  old  town  gave  me  my  start  in 
life,  and  I  am  not  going  to  lay  myself  open  to  the 


148       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

charge  of  ingratitude,  no  matter  at  what  cost  to  my 
personal  feelings.  Only  please  don't  insist  on  my 
flying  a  pennant  or  wearing  a  cap  with  the  city  slogan 
on  it.     What  is  the  motto,  by  the  way?" 

"Live  Lively  in  Livingstonr  chanted  the  delega- 
tion in  unison,  as  though  delivering  itself  of  a  col- 
lege yell.  Pete  opined  it  was  a  good  slogan,  with  a 
lot  of  multum  in  parvo  about  it ;  but  of  course,  if  that 
was  the  way  I  felt.  .  ,  . 

The  delegation  bowed  itself  out  and  adjourned  to  a 
sign-painter's  shop  to  discuss  the  practical  side  of  the 
affair  now  that  the  diplomatic  preliminaries  were  dis- 
posed of.  The  next  morning  I  found  "LIVING- 
STON, MONT."  streaming  in  bold  capitals  along 
port  and  starboard  bows  and  across  the  stern  of  my 
argosy.  The  blacksmith  said  there  had  been  some 
discussion  anent  blazoning  the  words  in  foot-high 
letters  the  whole  length  of  the  bottom,  on  the  theory, 
it  appears,  that  this  would  be  the  most  conspicuous 
part  of  the  boat  in  the  event  it  capsized  and  con- 
tinued on  to  New  Orleans  without  its  skipper. 
Whether  they  really  carried  out  that  inspired  plan  I 
never  learned.  The  first  sand  bar  I  hit  below  Living- 
ston would  have  effectually  erased  the  letters  in  any 
event.  Indeed,  I  was  only  too  happy  to  find  that  it 
hadn't  scoured  a  hole  through  the  bottom  itself. 

We  had  planned  to  push  off  by  nine  o'clock  of  the 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     149 

morning  of  June  thirtieth,  but  various  odds  and  ends 
of  delays  and  interruptions  held  us  over  an  hour. 
Most  of  these  were  in  the  form  of  elderly  ladies  who 
had  lost  near  relatives  in  the  river  and  chose  this  as 
the  fitting  occasion  to  tell  me  about  it.  I  have  some 
recollection  of  speaking  with  a  friend  or  connection 
of  Sydney  Lamartine.  Sydney  had  died  from  some 
cause  I  made  out,  but  whether  from  the  river  or  not 
I  did  not  learn.  Some  one  else  chimed  in  with  a 
boat-upset  story  just  at  that  juncture  and  things  got 
a  bit  mixed.  I  was  mighty  sorry  to  hear  about  La- 
martine, though.  He  pulled  a  strong  oar  and  had  no 
end  of  nerve — ^real  river  stuff. 

When  I  came  to  ask  the  blacksmith  how  much  I 
owed  him,  he  scatched  his  head  for  a  few  moments  and 
then  asked  if  I  thought  a  dollar  would  be  too  much. 
As  the  boat  had  been  around  his  shop  three  or  four 
days,  with  himself  or  a  helper  tinkering  on  little 
things  about  it  much  of  the  time  out  of  pure  kindli- 
ness, I  told  him  I  did  not  think  it  was  and  asked  him 
to  let  me  take  his  picture  for  fear  I  should  never  find 
another  like  him.  I  needn't  have  worried  on  that 
score,  however.  From  first  to  last,  practically  all  of 
the  people  I  had  to  do  with  along  each  of  the  three 
great  rivers  I  navigated  had  to  be  pressed  before  they 
would  take  any  pay  at  all  for  services.  Indeed,  I 
recall  but  two  who  seriously  tried  to  put  anything 


150       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

over.  One  was  the  clerk  of  the  local  Ritz-Carlton  at 
Billings,  who  tried  to  charge  me  two  days'  rent  for  a 
room  I  had  occupied  but  one,  and  the  other  was  a 
farmer's  wife  near  Sibley,  Missouri,  who  was  going 
to  collect  twenty-five  cents  from  me  for  a  quart  of 
skim  milk.  In  the  latter  instance  the  husband  of  the 
offender  came  along  in  time  to  intervene  in  my  be- 
half and  give  the  woman  a  good  tongue-lashing  for 
trying  to  cheat  a  *'po  stranghah  who  wasn't  no  low 
down  tramp  no  how  and  maybe  was  writin'  fo  the  pa- 
pahs."  In  the  former  case  the  "po  stranghah"  found 
justice  denied  him  until  he  actually  had  to  prove  that 
he  occasionally  did  write  for  the  "papahs."  I 
wouldn't  have  recalled  either  of  these  instances  if 
they  had  chanced  in  the  course  of  an  ordinary  trip, 
for  the  very  good  reason  there  would  have  been  so 
many  others  of  the  same  kind  that  my  memory  would 
not  have  compassed  them  all.  I  have  remembered 
them,  and  gone  to  the  trouble  of  mentioning  them 
here,  because  that  sort  of  thing  isn't  general  practice 
along  the  river-road. 

Just  before  starting,  and  purely  as  a  gesture,  I  of- 
fered Pete  Holt  the  use  of  my  Gieve  inflatable  life- 
preserver  jacket.  This  handy  little  garment  I  had 
worn  in  the  North  Sea  during  the  war,  and  it  had  also 
stood  me  in  good  stead  on  the  Columbia  the  previous 
Fall.     Now  I  was  really  very  keen  for  its  reassuring 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     151 

embrace  myself  on  that  first  day's  run,  and  if  I  had 
thought  Holt  would  take  it  I  would  never  have  offered 
it.  When  he  rose  to  that  jacket  like  a  hungry  trout 
to  a  fly  I  felt  toward  him  about  as  one  does  toward  a 
man  who  asks  you  to  say  "When" — and  then  stops 
pouring  when  you  do  say  it.  I  had  no  legitimate 
complaint  of  course.  It  was  entirely  my  own  fault. 
Just  the  same,  the  unlucky  denouement  cramped  my 
style  from  the  outset.  I  had  intended  giving  Pete  a 
deliberate  spill  in  some  safe-looking  rapid  just  to  pay 
him  for  a  few  things  he  had  done  to  me  with  the  ski. 
I  gave  up  the  idea  entirely  now.  That  "doughnut" 
of  air  under  his  arms  meant  that  he  would  probably 
bob  through  with  dry  hair  while  I  serpentined  over 
and  under  an  oar.  It  also  meant  that  he  was  going 
to  worry  a  lot  less  about  the  state  of  the  water  than 
I  hoped  he  would,  for  auld  lang  syne,  that  is.  It 
also  meant  that  I  was  going  to  worry  rather  more. 
It  was  an  unfortunate  move  on  my  part  altogether. 
Subject  to  that  self-imposed  handicap  I  think  I  did 
pretty  well.  I  am  sure  Pete  would  have  confessed 
that  night  that  there  were  two  or  three  new  kinds 
of  thrills  in  the  world  that  he  wotted  not  of  before, 
even  though  that  confounded  "doughnut"  must  have 
acted  as  a  good  deal  of  a  shock-absorber  throughout. 
Joe  Evans,  pushing  off  in  his  canoe  from  the  dock 
of  his  river  home  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  below. 


152       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

gave  the  signal  for  casting  off.  The  current  caught 
the  bow  as  the  honest  blacksmith  relinquished  the 
painter  and  the  boat  swung  quickly  into  the  stream. 
Some  boys  raised  a  spattering  cheer,  the  people  who 
had  lost  relatives  and  friends  in  the  river  shook  their 
heads  dubiously,  and  Pete  Nelson,  raising  three  fin- 
gers aloft,  shouted:  "Here's  luck!"  He  seemed  a 
good  deal  elated  because  the  Chief  of  PoHce  was  go- 
ing away. 

We  were  off — or  nearly  so.  When  I  turned  from 
the  crowd's  acclaim  to  con  ship  I  discovered  a  good 
thick  stream  of  green  water  slopping  in,  now  over 
one  quarter,  now  over  the  other.  And  whichever  side 
it  splashed  from,  Pete  was  getting  the  full  benefit 
of  it.  "I  hate  to  start  crabbing  at  this  stage.  Skip- 
per," he  said  with  a  wry  grin,  "but  it's  that  con- 
founded ballast  of  yours  that's  doing  it.  It's  put- 
ting her  rails  'right  under." 

I  squinted  critically  down  the  port  gunwale;  then 
down  the  starboard.  When  she  rode  on  an  even  keel 
either  rail  was  a  good  two  inches  above  water.  But 
when  she  lurched  in  even  the  gentlest  swell,  one  rail 
or  the  other  went  a  good  inch  under.  "You're  right," 
I  acquiesced.  "Heave  it  over."  One  by  one  the 
units  of  that  precious  pile  of  junk  from  the  black- 
smith shop  scrap-heap  went  to  the  bottom — a  Ford 
axle,  a  mower  gear,  the  frame  of  a  harrow,  some  frag- 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     153 

merits  of  "caterpillar"  tractor  tracks,  the  drive  wheel 
of  a  sewing  machine.  All  of  two  hundred  pounds  of 
choice  assorted  scrap  Pete  heaved  over,  keeping  but 
a  single  hunk  of  rusty  iron  that  I  thought  I  might 
use  for  an  anchor  at  night  in  avoiding  some  pernicious 
stretch  of  mosquito  coast  on  the  lower  river.  She 
still  rode  low,  but  trimmed  perfectly  as  soon  as  Pete 
finished  bailing. 

All  down  through  the  town  they  were  waving  us 
kindly  farewells  from  the  bank,  and  at  the  H  Street 
bridge,  where  "Buckskin  Jim"  Cutler  had  been 
picked  up  the  night  before,  we  ran  the  the  gauntlet 
of  another  crowd.  Then  the  people  began  to  thin 
out  and  we  had  the  river  to  ourselves.  With  the 
main  channel  streaming  white  a  few  hundred  yards 
ahead  I  settled  to  the  oars  for  the  sharp  initiatory 
test  I  knew  awaited  us  there.  We  had  closed  up 
to  within  fifty  feet  of  Joe  by  now,  and  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  remarkable  precautionary  measures  he 
had  taken  to  insure  the  safety  of  himself  and  his  ca- 
noe. For  himself  he  had  a  blown-up  football  tied 
to  the  back  of  his  belt,  an  arrangement  very  similar 
to  the  block  of  wood  Chinese  houseboat  dwellers  tie 
to  their  boy,  though  not  to  their  comparatively  worth- 
less girl,  children.  Along  both  gunwales  of  the  ca- 
noe were  further  air  installations — these  in  the  form 
of  long  lengths  of  inflated  inner  tubes.     The  prac- 


154       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

tical  worth  of  the  latter  contrivances  was  to  be  proved 
inside  of  half  a  minute.  Of  the  efficacy  of  a  foot- 
ball tied  to  the  back  of  the  belt  as  a  life-preserver 
I  had  some  doubts.  It  seemed  to  me,  however,  that 
the  elevation  of  that  particular  section  of  the  anat- 
omy could  only  be  secured  at  the  cost  of  putting  the 
head  under  water.  Not  being  quite  sure,  I  deemed 
it  best  not  to  shake  Joe's  confidence  by  telling  him 
of  my  doubts. 

The  Yellowstone  divides  a  half  mile  or  so  above 
the  Main  Street  bridge,  not  far  from  the  point  where 
Jim  Cutler  was  knocked  from  his  raft.  The  north- 
erly channel,  flowing  by  Livingston  has  perhaps  a 
third  of  the  volume  of  the  southerly  one.  The  two 
unite  not  far  below  the  H  Street  bridge.  In  doing 
a  bit  of  advance  scouting  down  stream  a  day  or  two 
previously  I  made  particular  mental  note  of  a  point, 
just  below  the  confluence,  at  which  the  current  drove 
with  great  force  close  to  the  left  bank.  Here,  either 
snags  or  slightly  submerged  boulders  made  a  messy 
stretch  of  water  that  I  saw  at  a  glance  it  would  not 
do  to  get  a  boat  into.  However,  a  good  sharp  pull 
across  the  current  from  the  point  the  main  channel 
was  entered  would  be  enough  to  avoid  trouble — if 
nothing  went  wrong. 

The  currents  of  the  respective  channels  came  to- 
gether almost  at  right  angles,  that  of  the  main  one 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     155 

flowing  at  perhaps  eight  miles  an  hour.  Ordinarily 
I  would  have  eased  into  this  by  running  parallel  to 
it  and  conforming  my  course  to  the  direction  of  the 
stronger  current.  In  my  anxiety  to  get  quick  way 
on  across  the  current,  however,  I  did  not  take  the 
time  to  do  this.  On  the  contrary,  indeed,  pulling  as 
hard  as  I  could,  I  drove  the  light  skiff  almost  head- 
on  into  the  swiftly  speeding  green  bolt  of  the  main 
current.  The  effect,  naturally,  was  something  like 
that  of  a  man's  walking  into  the  side  of  a  moving 
street  car.  The  boat  did  precisely  what  a  man  walk- 
ing into  a  car  would  do — ^went  reeling  and  staggering 
sideways  in  an  effort  to  keep  from  rolling  over  and 
over.  She  spun  round  twice  before  I  got  her  under 
control,  and  of  course  shipped  a  lot  of  green  water 
— all  of  it  in  Holt's  section.  It  wasn't  enough  to 
bother  much,  though,  and  I  had  no  trouble  in  pul- 
ling clear  of  the  danger  point  with  yards  to  spare. 
Holt  went  quietly  to  bailing.  I  was  conscious  of  a 
mild  thrill  of  elation  at  the  thought  of  the  sousing 
I  was  giving  him  in  spite  of  the  "doughnut,"  but  he 
didn't  seem  to  be  worrying  about  it  quite  as  much 
as  I  would  have  liked. 

There  was  less  excuse  for  Joe's  having  trouble  at 
this  point,  because  it  was  almost  in  his  back  yard — 
one  of  his  favourite  fishing  riffles,  in  fact.  It  may 
be  that  the  fact  that  I  was  crowding  him  closely  from 


156       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

behind  made  him  nose  into  the  main  channel  faster 
than  he  would  have  done  had  he  been  on  his  own.  I 
was  too  busy  with  my  own  troubles  to  see  what  hap- 
pened to  him,  so  could  only  judge  from  the  tremolo 
of  his  high-keyed  cursing.  Holt,  however,  who  had 
a  grandstand  seat  for  the  twin  performances,  said 
that  the  canvas  canoe  was  thrown  just  about  on  its 
beams'  ends,  and  that  nothing  but  the  newly  installed 
water-line  air-chambers,  prevented  a  complete 
swamping. 

The  bend  below  the  Northern  Pacific  bridge  was 
one  of  the  two  or  three  places  of  which  I  seemed  to 
have  retained  much  of  a  mental  picture  from  my  pre- 
vious run.  Twenty  years  before  the  main  channel 
was  cutting  heavily  into  a  low  bluff  on  the  left,  bring- 
ing down  an  enormous  quantity  of  big  round  boulders. 
The  short,  savage  riffle  formed  by  these  had  given 
us  our  first  severe  mauling  on  that  earlier  ride.  Now 
I  found  the  river  had  broadened  greatly,  pouring  a 
shallow  current  through  a  channel  two  or  three  hun- 
dred yards  wide.  But  it  was  still  swift,  very  swift 
— altogether  relentless  in  its  onward  urge.  It  is  the 
almost  complete  absence  of  slack-water  stretches  that 
differentiates  the  five  hundred  miles  of  the  Yellow- 
stone between  Gardiner  and  Glendive  from  any  other 
great  river  I  can  recall.  It  is  this  that  makes  it  so 
nearly  ideal  for  boating. 


JOE  EVANS  WHO  PILOTED  ME  THE   FIRST  HALF  DAY    (Above) 
»ETE    HOLT    AND    JOE    EVANS    WITH    THEIR    IJ 

(Center) 

'chickens,  CHILDREN  AND  HOGs"    (Below) 


PETE    HOLT    AND    JOE    EVANS    WITH    THEIR    INFLATED    LIFE    PRESERVERS 

(Center) 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     157 

It  didn't  take  us  long  to  discover  that  as  a  pilot 
Joe  was  not  an  asset.  Personally  he  was  a  source 
of  never-ending  delight ;  also  artistically.  His  funny 
little  craft  with  its  inner-tube  bilge  keels,  no  less  than 
the  bobbing  of  that  football  life-preserver,  lent  touches 
to  the  picture  that  could  have  been  blocked  in  by  no 
other  media.  But  what  made  Joe's  piloting  fail  to 
qualify  was  the  fact  that  instead  of  trying  to  find  the 
channel  he  was  trying  to  find  floaters — to  earn  one 
or  both  of  those  twenty-five-dollar  rewards  that  were 
offered  for  the  finding  of  the  bodies  of  the  people 
drowned  the  previous  week.  I  wanted  all  the  deep, 
clear,  unobstructed  channel  there  was  to  be  had;  the 
very  nature  of  Joe's  quest  kept  him  edging  in  toward 
snags  and  bars  and  shallows.  These  little  incidentals 
didn't  bother  him  a  bit.  The  instant  he  saw  the  water 
shoaling  dangerously  he  simply  jumped  overboard, 
grabbed  his  feather-weight  craft  by  the  nose  and 
trotted  right  out  on  dry  land. 

Now  this  wouldn't  have  troubled  seriously  if — save 
the  mark! — I  had  also  been  using  an  unladen  can- 
vas canoe.  But  with  my  outfit,  a  passenger,  and  a 
boat  whose  ability  to  withstand  collisions  with  rocks 
and  snags  had  still  to  be  proved,  Joe's  little  jump-out, 
pick-up  and  trot-off  manoeuvre  was  a  difiicult  one  to 
follow.  Twice,  because  there  was  no  alterna- 
tive either  time,  I  did  the  best  I  could  to  go  through 


158       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

his  motions.  All  I  succeeded  in  doing — besides  get- 
ting pulled  down  and  rolled — was  proving  that  the 
bottom  of  my  boat  would  bang  for  fifty  feet  over  shal- 
lowly  submerged  rocks  without  holing.  While  that 
latter  was  reassuring,  I  couldn't  see  any  reason  for 
going  on  and  proving  it  over  and  over  again.  If  the 
constant  drop  of  water  wears  away  the  hardest  stone 
it  seemed  perfectly  reasonable  to  believe  that  the  con- 
stant biff  of  boulders  might  batter  through  the  hardest 
bottom.  And  I  wanted  that  bottom  to  do  me  for  from 
twenty-five  to  thirty -five  hundred  miles  yet. 

That  was  the  reason  why  when,  entangled  in  a  maze 
of  shoaling  channels,  Joe  picked  up  his  canoe  and 
trotted  up  on  a  bar  for  the  third  time,  I  had  the  corner 
of  a  wild-weather  eye  lifting  for  a  possible  gateway 
of  escape.  A  short,  sharp  chute  cascading  off  to  the 
right  seemed  to  fill  the  bill,  but  by  a  narrow  squeeze. 
A  rough  tumble  of  green-white  water  drove  full  at  a 
caving  gravel  bank,  reared  up  and  fell  over  on  its  back 
in  a  curling  wave,  serpentined  between  the  out-reach- 
ing claws  formed  by  the  roots  of  two  prostrate  cotton- 
wood  trees,  and  then  recovered  from  its  tantrum  in  a 
diminuendo  of  whirlpools  in  the  embrasure  of  a  brown 
cliff.  It  was  the  kind  of  a  place  which  you  knew  you 
could  run  if  all  went  right,  but  which  you  usually 
didn't  try  for  fear  that  one  of  a  half  dozen  things 
might  go  wrong.     I  should  hardly  have  tackled  it  in 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     159 

cold  blood,  even  in  a  boat  I  was  thoroughly  used  to; 
but  I  had  just  enough  dander  up  over  the  prospect 
of  another  bumping  on  Joe's  bar  to  be  just  a  bit  care- 
less of  consequences.  It  was  that  sort  of  "Might-as- 
well-be-hanged-for-a-sheep-as-a-lamb"  feeling  that  a 
man  ought  to  eliminate  from  his  system  as  a  first  step 
in  fitting  himself  for  work  in  rough  water.  It  had 
always  troubled  me  a  bit,  but  I  had  it  sufficiently  in 
check  to  keep  it  from  asserting  itself  unless  I  was  very 
tired  or  slighty  huffed.  This  time,  I  fear,  there  was 
just  a  bare  ruffle  of  huffiness  easing  the  brake  of  my 
wonted  restraint. 

I  was  over  the  dip  at  the  head  of  that  chute  before 
I  knew  it — likewise,  out  into  the  swirls  at  the  foot  of 
it.  I  was  conscious  only  of  a  sudden  dive,  the  loom 
of  the  back-curling  wave — which  the  skiff,  heeling  half 
over,  was  taking  as  a  racing  car  round  a  steeply- 
banked  turn, — a  tangle  of  roots  to  left  and  right,  and 
then  the  serpentining  through  the  whirlpools.  She 
had  hardly  shipped  a  bucket  of  solid  water — most  of 
it  over  her  bows  as  she  tipped  off  the  curling  wave. 

Joe  was  quite  handsome  above  having  his  pilotage 
flaunted.  The  first  thing  he  did  after  catching  up 
with  us  was  to  apologize  again  for  having  warned 
about  running  the  upper  river.  The  good  chap 
seemed  really  to  think  that  some  skill  had  been  dis- 
played in  running  that  chute.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 


160       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

simply  headed  in  and  let  the  current  do  the  rest. 
Pete  said  I  backed  water  sharply  to  keep  from  ram- 
ming the  gravel  bank,  and  that  we  both  fended  with 
oars  against  the  clutch  of  the  cottonwood  snags. 
Pete  also  said  I  was  pop-eyed  all  the  way  through.  I 
know  that  he  was.  I  was  glad  of  it,  too.  Outside  of 
a  straight  spill,  I  felt  that  there  wasn't  going  to  be 
much  more  that  I  could  do  to  shake  those  confound- 
edly cool  scout-trained  nerves  of  his. 

This  little  incident  clarified  the  air  on  the  pilotage 
question.  I  let  Joe  keep  the  lead  as  far  as  I  could, 
but  assumed  the  responsibility  of  picking  my  own 
channel  while  he  concentrated  on  his  quest. 

We  passed  several  grim  reminders  of  the  tragedies 
of  the  past  week.  A  few  miles  below  Livingston  we 
came  upon  Jim  Cutler's  raft  stranded  upon  a  mid- 
stream bar.  Even  a  passing  glimpse  revealed  how 
well  the  double  tiers  of  logs  were  laid — plainly  the 
work  of  the  real  old  river-rat  "Buckskin  Jim"  must 
have  been.  Not  far  below  the  raft  was  the  wreck  of 
a  Ford,  with  cushions,  wraps,  and  odds  and  ends  of  a 
camp  outfit  dotting  the  bars  for  the  next  mile  or  two. 
The  car,  occupied  by  a  young  Middle  Westerner  and 
his  four-months'  bride,  had  gone  over  the  grade  at  a 
bend  of  the  road  not  far  above  where  we  saw  the  wreck. 
Rolling  to  the  flood-swollen  river,  it  had  been  carried 
several  hundred  yards  down  stream  before  stranding. 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     161 

The  man  crawled  clear  and  reached  the  bank ;  the  body 
of  his  wife  had  not  been  recovered.  The  third  recent 
river  tragedy  was  that  of  a  rancher,  but  I  had  not 
learned  the  details  of  it. 

I  was,  of  course,  much  elated  over  the  way  in  which 
my  little  tin  boat  had  behaved  in  running  that  side- 
winding  chute.  This  very  smart  performance  proved 
conclusively  that,  with  anything  like  intelligent  han- 
dling, she  would  be  more  than  equal  to  any  probable 
demands  I  would  have  to  make  on  her.  There  might, 
of  course,  be  places  that  I  would  have  to  avoid  on  ac- 
count of  her  lack  of  freeboard,  but  that,  at  the  worst, 
would  mean  no  more  than  the  loss  of  a  bit  of  time. 
She  was  good  for  what  she  would  have  to  do — that 
was  the  main  thing.  There  was  reassurance,  also,  in 
the  way  her  bottom  and  sides  had  withstood  the  bump- 
ing from  the  rocks.  There  was  no  question  in  my 
mind  now  that  that  galvanized  tin-like  looking  stuff 
was  real  steel.  Nothing  else  would  have  stood  the 
bumps.  I  planned  to  spare  her  all  that  kind  of  thing 
I  could,  but  it  was  good  to  know  that  she  could  stand 
the  gaff  if  she  had  to.  I  was  calling  her  pet  names 
before  we  had  gone  twenty  miles.  It  is  an  astonish- 
ing thing  the  affection  a  man  develops  for  a  boat  that 
is  carrying  him  well  on  a  long  river  journey. 

The  thing  that  I  remembered  best  from  my  former 
run  was  the  long,  rough  rapid  that  winds  down  and 


162       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

under  the  Springdale  bridge.  I  did  not  recall,  how- 
ever, that  the  river  divided  into  two  channels  a  half 
mile  above  the  bridge.  Indeed,  it  is  quite  possible 
that  it  did  not  do  so  twenty  years  ago.  Changes  like 
that  occur  over  night  during  the  high-water  season  on 
the  Yellowstone.  Joe  led  the  way  down  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  left-hand  channel,  but  landed  when  it  be- 
came apparent  that  neither  of  our  boats  could  live 
in  the  wild  tumble  of  rollers  where  the  current  drove 
hard  against  the  side  of  the  bluff  above  the  bridge. 
Lining  back  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up-stream,  we  pulled 
across  to  the  opposite  side,  down  which  there  was 
rough  but  fairly  open  running. 

My  boat  was  behaving  so  well  that  I  couldn't  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  give  her  a  baptism  in  some 
really  rough  stuff  at  a  point  where  salvage  operations 
would  be  so  comparatively  simple  in  case  of  grief. 
Giving  the  little  lady  her  head  after  the  worst  of 
the  riffle  had  been  passed,  I  let  the  undercurrent  draw 
her  right  over  into  the  main  string  of  rollers.  Wild, 
wallowing  water  it  was,  solid  white  all  the  way,  but 
with  a  straight  run  and  no  underhand  look  about  it. 
She  took  it  like  a  duck,  except  where  two  or  three 
of  the  most  broken  combers  let  her  down  too  sharply 
for  her  bows  to  rise  to  meet  the  next  in  turn.  There 
were  perhaps  a  half  dozen  buckets  of  water  in  the  for- 
ward section  when  we  beached  and  dumped  her  a  hun- 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     163 

dred  yards  below  the  bridge.  As  I  seem  to  remember 
it  now,  Syd  Lamartine's  skiff  had  a  foot  of  water  in  it 
when  we  dumped  at  about  the  same  point  on  that 
other  run.  On  that  occasion,  however,  I  have  a  clear 
recollection  of  riding  the  middle  of  the  riffle  all  the 
way  down.  I  should  want  a  hatteau  and  a  full  crew 
if  I  were  going  to  try  the  same  stunt  today. 

It  must  have  been  six  or  seven  miles  below  the 
Springdale  bridge  that  Holt,  descrying  an  unusual 
object  on  the  beach  of  a  long,  low  island  to  our  left, 
asked  me  to  pull  in  closer  for  a  better  look.  Joe,  a 
hundred  yards  ahead  of  us,  had  already  passed  it  up 
as  a  log  of  driftwood,  but  the  ex-scout's  keen  eye 
would  not  be  deceived.  At  first  we  thought  it  was 
the  body  of  a  man — probably  the  drowned  rancher, 
— but  as  we  drew  nearer  it  was  revealed  as  that  of 
a  woman  dressed  in  hiking  garb,  undoubtedly  the 
bride  of  the  auto  wreck. 

As  we  were  now  in  Sweet  Grass  County,  the  body 
was  under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Coroner  at  Big 
Timber.  Holt  decided  it  would  be  best  if  Joe  tried 
to  find  some  ranch  from  which  he  could  get  in  touch 
with  that  official  by  phone,  while  we  continued  on 
down  river  to  carry  the  word  by  an  alternative  route. 

Joe  was  treated  to  a  good  deal  of  a  shock  while 
towing  the  body  down  stream  to  an  eddy  from  which 


164       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

it  could  be  landed  on  the  left  bank.  No  sooner  had 
he  put  off  from  the  beach  than  the  corpse,  floating 
deeply  submerged  at  the  end  of  a  thirty-foot  line, 
made  straight  for  the  roaring  line  of  rollers  on  the 
right  side  of  the  channel.  As  it  was  a  good  deal  too 
rough  water  for  his  boat  to  ride,  Joe  lost  no  time  in 
bending  to  his  stubby  oars  and  pulling  for  dear  life 
in  the  opposite  direction.  It  was  a  tug-of-war  all 
the  way,  with  the  grisly  tow  on  the  outer  end  gain- 
ing foot  by  foot.  Holt  and  I  had  drifted  too  far 
ahead  before  we  realized  the  seriousness  of  Joe's  dif- 
ficulty to  be  of  any  help.  As  an  upset  was  inevitable 
in  the  event  the  canoe  was  dragged  into  the  riffle 
stern  first,  the  best  that  we  could  do  was  to  pick  him 
up  at  the  foot  of  it  and  trust  that  his  canoe  would 
strand  and  anchor  the  corpse. 

If  that  riffle  had  been  fifty  yards  longer  nothing 
in  the  world  could  have  prevented  a  spill  that  would 
have  put  Joe's  football  life-preserver  to  a  real  test. 
As  far  as  the  tug-of-war  was  concerned  he  was  beaten 
completely — dragged  over  the  line.  Luckily  it  was 
only  the  smoothening  tail  of  the  riffle,  and  the  buoyant 
little  canoe  rode  the  rounded  rollers  without  capsiz- 
ing. Another  hundred  yards,  and  the  relentless 
drag  from  the  other  end  of  his  line  had  eased  enough 
to  allow  him  to  pull  up  and  into  the  eddy.  He  was 
mighty  white  about  the  gills  as  Holt  gave  him  a 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     165 

hand  ashore,  and  kept  repeating  over  and  over  in 
1  an  awed  voice :     ^'Did  you  see  her  try  to  drown  me? 
'Did  you  see  her  try  to  drown  me?" 

It  was  easy  enough  to  understand  what  the  trouble 
had  been  as  soon  as  one  gave  it  a  moment's  collected 
thought.  Calm  reflection,  however,  was  a  thing 
which  I  am  inclined  to  think  very  few  men  would 
have  been  capable  of  in  Joe's  place.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  indeed,  neither  Holt  nor  I  was  in  a  suffi- 
ciently detached  frame  of  mind  to  dope  out  the  phe- 
nomenon until  some  minutes  after  Joe  had  landed. 
This  was  the  reason  for  what  happened: 

In  every  swiftly  flowing  channel  there  is  a  strong 
draw  toward  the  most  rapidly  moving  part  of  the 
current,  and  this  draw  is  usually  more  powerful  be- 
low than  at  the  surface.  A  boat  paddled  in  com- 
paratively smooth  water  beside  a  riffle  will  invariably 
be  drawn  into  the  latter  within  a  few  yards  if  allowed 
to  drift.  Only  too  often,  in  fact,  it  will  be  drawn 
in  despite  every  effort  to  avoid  the  riffle.  In  this 
particular  instance,  the  deeply  floating  corpse  had 
given  the  inward-drawing  current  a  double  hold,  and 
Joe's  short  oars  had  not  been  able  to  develop  power 
enough  to  counteract  it.  Readily  explicable  as  the 
uncanny  incident  was,  there  was  no  question  of  the 
grim  seriousness  of  it.  Indeed,  I  have  always 
thought  of  it  as  a  battle  with  Death  in  more  senses 


166       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

than  one,  for  that  football  float  of  Joe's,  attached 
as  it  was,  would  have  been  about  as  much  use  as  a 
life-preserver,  once  he  was  dumped  out  into  that  rif- 
fle, as  a  millstone  round  his  neck. 

Holt  and  I  made  good  time  for  the  remainder  of 
the  run  to  Big  Timber — about  three  hours  for  some- 
thing like  twenty-five  miles.  The  way  was  a  contin- 
uous succession  of  moderate  rapids,  with  one  very 
rough  and  savage  cascade.  The  latter  was  not  far 
above  Big  Timber,  and  was  formed  by  a  ledge  of 
bedrock  extending  all  the  way  across  the  river.  A 
direct  drop  of  two  or  three  feet  here  was  followed 
by  a  series  of  stiff  riffles  that  extended  out  of  sight 
round  a  sharp  bend  where  the  river  was  deflected  at 
right-angles  by  an  abrupt  cliff.  I  never  learned  the 
name  of  the  place,  but  it  was  a  distinctly  nasty  one — 
just  one  damn  thing  after  another,  as  Pete  put  it. 
I  have  jumbled  memories  of  messing  up  on  the  ledge, 
and  then  half  swamping  just  below  it,  on  my  former 
run. 

Not  to  take  too  many  chances  in  the  deepening 
twilight  (though  all  we'd  admit  to  each  other  at  the 
time  was  that  we  were  doing  it  to  avoid  wetting  my 
outfit),  we  lined  by  the  sharp  pitch  and  on  down 
almost  to  the  bend.  Even  from  there  it  was  right 
sloppy  going,  partly  through  some  rather  clumsy 
handling  the  skiff  had  as  a  consequence  of  a  sudden 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     167 

divergence  of  theory  Pete  and  I  developed  on  the 
subject  of  rapid  running. 

Rounding  the  sharp  bend  the  skiff  was  drawn  into 
the  middle  of  a  rough,  foam-white  riffle  that  extended 
ahead  as  far  as  I  could  see.  The  unrhythmically 
wallowing  rollers  were  banging  her  bows  unmerci- 
fully and  throwing  water  aboard  at  a  rate  that  I 
feared  would  swamp  her  very  quickly  if  she  contin- 
ued to  head  into  them.  Seeing  that  the  water  toward 
the  right  bank  was  a  bit  less  broken,  I  laid  onto  my 
oars  for  all  that  was  in  me  in  an  effort  to  throw  her 
in  that  direction.  Holt  was  grunting  mightily. 
Looking  ahead  over  my  shoulder,  I  could  not  see 
what  he  was  doing,  but  assumed  he  was  paddling  his 
head  off  in  seconding  my  effort  to  reach  smoother 
water.  But  not  a  yard  could  I  move  her  from  the 
crest  of  that  white-capped  ridge  of  rollicking 
combers.  Down  the  whole  length  of  the  riffle  she 
slammed,  dipping  water  at  every  plunge  and  finish- 
ing with  a  good  six  inches  swishing  about  in  both 
sections. 

Just  about  at  the  last  gasp  from  my  frantic  but 
futile  pulling,  I  let  my  oars  trail  and  my  head  sag 
down  between  my  knees  while  my  heart  stopped  hop- 
skip-and-a- jumping  and  my  breath  came  back. 
Looking  up  a  half  minute  later  to  see  if  there  was 
anything  ahead  that  would  demand  expert  attention, 


168       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

I  saw  that  Pete  was  just  coming  out  of  a  collapse 
similar  to  my  own.  Also  he  was  choking  toward  ut- 
terance. 

"Took  all  I  had  in  me, — but  I  did  it,"  he  gasped 
with  a  sickly  grin. 

"Did  what?"  I  growled. 

"Kept  you  from  throwing  her  side-on  and  giving 
me  that  spill  you  promised,"  he  chuckled.  "Don't 
you  think  it's  getting  too  late  in  the  evening  for  that 
kind  of  jokes?" 

Oh,  well!  The  warehouses  and  the  water-tanks 
of  the  Big  Timber  bluff  were  beginning  to  blot  the 
evening  sky  ahead,  and  'so  I  hardly  thought  it  worth 
while  to  explain  to  Pete  that  his  fancied  self -defen- 
sive measures  had  probably  brought  him  nearer  to 
that  promised  spill  than  he  had  been  at  any  time 
during  the  day.  He  wouldn't  have  believed  me  any- 
how. Won't  even  do  so  when  he  reads  it  here  in 
cold  print. 

Pulling  up  a  slough  that  ran  back  from  the  head 
of  the  bluff,  we  found  safe  haven  under  the  over- 
arching willows  of  a  wonderfully  cold  and  clear  lit- 
tle creek.  Pushing  out  onto  the  bank  above,  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  back  yard  of  the  local  post- 
master. A  highly  gracious  and  comely  young  lady 
volunteered  to  mend  my  Gieve  waistcoat,  torn  by 
Pete's  frantic  paddlings  over  and  roundabout  the  in- 


LIVINGSTON  TO  BIG  TIMBER     169 

flated  "doughnut."     The  Gieve  is  not  made  to  pad- 
dle in. 

Wolfing  great  porterhouse  steaks  and  quaffing 
steaming  mugs  of  coffee,  Pete  and  I  sat  long  at  a 
lunch-counter  table  and  talked  of  our  ancient  ski 
jaunt  over  the  snows  of  the  Yellowstone.  He  spoke 
much  of  coasting  and  jumping  and  spills — especially 
of  spills  that  I  took.  Just  why  he  did  this  didn't  oc- 
c^r  to  me  until  after  he  had  left  for  Livingston  by 
the  midnight  train.  I  figured  it  out  walking  back 
to  the  hotel.  It  was  merely  the  subtle  chap's  way 
of  letting  me  know  that  he  still  reckoned  I  was  a 
bit  in  his  debt  on  the  score  of  thrills  and  spills.  May- 
be so.  Maybe  so.  Twenty-year  thrills  more  readily 
than  forty-year,  just  as  forty-year  is  more  reluctant 
to  take  a  chance  at  a  spill. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BIG   TIMBER  TO   BILLINGS 

A  troop  of  round-up  artists  jingled  into  Big  Tim- 
ber the  morning  of  July  first,  just  as  I  was  leaving 
the  hotel  to  go  down  to  my  boat.  They  were  in  from 
the  ranges  on  their  way  to  compete  at  the  annual 
cow-carnival  at  Miles  City.  Having  read  of  my 
voyage  in  the  paper,  they  came  to  me  with  the  pro- 
posal that  I  book  the  lot  of  them  as  passengers. 
They  assumed  that  I  would  easily  make  the  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  mile  run  in  a  day,  and  that  my  boat 
had  unlimited  cabin  capacity.  I  replied  by  inviting 
them  down  to  my  moorings.  The  sight  of  the  tiny 
tin  shallop  tied  up  under  the  willows  brought  them 
to  a  more  reasonable  view  of  the  situation.  They 
readily  admitted  that  it  would  not  carry  anything 
like  ten  people,  even  without  their  saddles,  but  they 
were  inclined  to  argue  that  it  would  carry  at  least 
four  besides  myself. 

I  assured  them  I  was  game  to  try  it  if  they  were, 
but  suggested  that  the  four  elected  should  get  in 
first.  Now  four  light-footed  sailors  might  have 
stepped  into  that  little  boat  and  taken  their  seats 

170 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         171 

without  upsetting  it.  Four  booted  and  spurred  cow- 
punchers  could  not,  or  at  least  did  not.  In  fact  the 
third  one  precipitated  the  swamping  when  he  stum- 
bled and  fell  over  the  two  who  had  preceded  him. 
After  we  had  raised,  dumped  and  launched  her  again, 
I  assured  them  that  a  single  passenger  was  my  out- 
side limit,  but  that  I  would  he  highly  honoured  by 
the  company  of  any  one  of  them  whom  they  would 
agree  to  nominate  for  the  run  to  Billings.  As  I 
was  planning  to  stop  over  a  day  or  two  there,  my 
arrival  by  river  in  Miles  would  be  too  late  for  the 
opening  of  the  Round-up. 

After  some  debate  they  picked  the  "buUdogger" 
of  the  outfit.  "BuUdogging"  is  a  stock  round-up 
stunt,  and  I  shall  hardly  need  to  explain  that  the 
modus  operandi  involves  throwing  a  steer  by  seizing 
its  nose  in  the  teeth  and  upsetting  its  centre  of  grav- 
ity by  a  sudden  twist  of  the  neck.  One  sees  it  in 
every  rodeo,  but  it  is  a  feat  withal  that  requires  much 
nerve,  strength  and  skill. 

Jocularly  remarking  that  he  reckoned  he  would 
have  to  ride  this  tin  broncho  with  a  slick  heel,  the 
"dogger"  unbuckled  his  spurs  and  stepped  into  the 
boat.  I  went  up  to  fetch  my  remaining  bags  from 
the  postmaster's  house  and  was  delayed  ten  minutes 
while  the  stitching  up  of  my  Gieve  was  completed. 
When  I  returned  I  found  a  bewhiskered  stranger 


172       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

recounting  with  facile  gesture  how  he  fished  the 
floaters  out  of  the  eddy  below  his  ranch  down-river. 
He  called  it  "Dead  Man's  Douse."  Last  floater  he 
took  out  was  a  cow-puncher  who  had  been  so  rolled 
in  the  big  rapid  above  that  his  spurs  were  tangled  in 
his  hair  and  he  came  wheeling  through  the  suds  like 
a  doughnut.  It  was  a  hells-bells- jingler  of  a  rapid, 
that  one  above  the  "Douse."  Water  tossed  about 
so  fierce  that  the  fishes'  brains  were  spattered  on  the 
rocks  I 

That  was  about  all  I  arrived  in  time  to  hear,  but 
the  "dogger"  had  been  more  fortunate.  The  good 
chap  was  deeply  impressed,  too,  for  his  iron,  bull- 
nose-biting  jaw  was  sagging  in  a  sickly  grin  and  he 
was  back  on  the  bank  offering  a  free  passage  to  Bill- 
ings to  any  of  his  mates  who  cared  to  accept.  No 
takers.  The  gamest  of  the  lot  appeared  to  be  a  lady 
broncho-buster  called  Lil.  She  actually  stepped  into 
the  boat  once,  but  finally  decided  to  take  the  train 
because  it  had  a  roof  on  it.  It  looked  like  rain,  she 
said,  and  it  always  made  her  broken  shoulder  ache 
to  get  wet.  As  if  rain  was  the  wettest  part  of  riding 
the  Yellowstone. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  push  off  the  whiskered 
rancher  stepped  up  and  asked  if  I  minded  giving  him 
a  bit  of  a  down-river  lift.  Gladly  I  bade  him  come 
along,  figuring  that  his  pilotage  would  give  me  a 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         173 

better  chance  of  avoiding  the  dreaded  "Douse." 
The  round-up  artists  sped  us  with  their  college  yell 
as  I  crabbed  out  of  the  little  slough  to  the  river.  I 
bumped  into  some  of  them  again  in  Miles  the  day 
after  the  Bound-up.  Most  of  their  faces  bore  the 
marks  of  hoof  or  fist.  Lady  Lil  had  lost  no  cuticle 
(at  least  where  it  showed),  but  red  eyes  hoisted  the 
distress  signal  of  a  deeper  seated  wound.  The  "dog- 
ger" had  taken  up  with  another  girl — a  she-dude  that 
had  once  been  a  bare-back  rider  in  a  circus.  Lil  had 
been  crying  a  lot,  which  was  no  end  of  a  shame  con- 
sidering how  wetness  affected  her  busted  shoulder. 
All  of  which  went  to  prove  that  Lilly  the  Lady  Bron- 
cho-Buster and  Judy  O' Grady  were  sisters  under  the 
skin.  And  Lil  had  looked  so  darned  exempt  from 
the  surge  of  the  soft  stuff! 

There  is  a  fairly  rough  riffle  just  below  the  Big 
Timber,  and  then  a  lot  of  rather  mean  navigating 
through  the  shallows  where  the  boulders  of  Clark's  fa- 
mous "Rivers  Across"  litter  the  channel  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone. The  whiskered  stranger,  stroking  with  an 
oar  from  the  stern,  was  of  real  help  in  making  the 
passage  of  both  comparatively  quiet  and  dry.  He 
also  found  me  a  smooth-running  strip  of  green 
through  the  almost  solid  tumble  of  white  where  the 
river  was  chasing  its  tail  in  a  sharply  notched  bend 
about  five  miles  farther  on.     These  little  riffles  didn't 


174       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

bother  me  much,  though.  My  mind  was  too  much 
occupied  by  the  "Dead  Man's  Douse"  for  that.  I 
was  wondering  whether  the  old  chap  intended  to  run 
me  through  that  fish-brain-spattering-rapid,  or  if  he 
might  be  considerate  enough  to  help  me  portage 
round.  I  was  trying  to  get  my  nerve  up  to  broach- 
ing the  latter  procedure  when  my  pilot  dug  hard  with 
his  steering  oar  and  brought  the  skiff  up  to  a  grav- 
elly landing  below  a  pretty  little  tree-covered  bench. 
His  cabin  was  back  behind  the  bull-berries,  he  said, 
and  he  would  have  to  leave  me  here.  Or  perhaps 
I  would  hang  on  for  an  hour  and  have  some  coffee 
and  a  mess  of  sinkers  with  him. 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  see  me  through  the  "Dead 
Man's  Douse?"  I  exclaimed  in  dismay,  adding  in  a 
feeble  attempt  at  f unniness :  "It  might  save  you  fish- 
ing out  my  remains  later." 

A  corner  of  the  tobacco-stained  mouth  drew  out 
in  a  highly  amused  chuckle.  "By  jingo,  sonny,"  he 
giggled  finally,  "it  wasn't  youse  I  was  shootin'  for 
with  that  yarn.  I  thought  youse  savvied  all  the  time. 
I  jest  was  wantin'  this  here  seat  that  bull-biting  cow- 
puncher  had  perempted.  There  ain't  no  'Dead 
Man's  Douse.'  Fack  is,  youse  got  most  of  the  sloppy 
stuff  ahint  youse  already.  Don't  get  too  gosh-all- 
fired  sure  of  you'self  an'  youse  all  right — tin  boat  an' 
all." 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         175 

It  was  with  real  regret  that  the  threat  of  coming 
storm  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  keep  going  while 
I  could.  The  good  old  chap  had  made  casual  men- 
tion of  Terry  and  Miles  and  Gibbon,  of  hunting  buf- 
falo and  elk  on  the  river  in  the  early  days,  and  of 
many  comparatively  recent  jaunts  down  the  Yellow- 
stone searching  for  agates.  He  would  have  been 
well  worth  listening  to.  I  never  learned  his  name, 
but  I  have  always  thought  of  him  as  "Jim  Bridger" 
— because  he  lied  with  so  classic  a  simplicity,  paint- 
ing his  pictures  as — well,  as  a  river  paints  its  rocks 
with  fish-brains ! 

There  were  a  good  half  dozen  sinister-cloaked  thun- 
der-storms doing  their  war  dances  in  this  direction 
or  that  as  I  left  "Jim  Bridger"  and  pushed  back  into 
the  stream.  The  wolf-fanged  Crazies  to  the  north 
were  getting  the  livehest  of  them,  but  there  were  also 
some  tremendous  disturbances  going  on  among  the 
snowy  pinnacles  where  the  Absarokas  reared  against 
the  southern  sky.  The  restlessly  counter-marching 
clouds  above  the  valley  were  full  of  whirling  wind- 
gusts  but  not  of  rain.  The  sudden  side-swipes  of 
air  kept  the  skiff  yawing  rather  crazily,  but  as  there 
was  no  very  fine  shooting  to  do  for  the  moment  I 
kept  going.  Indeed,  I  was  quite  unconcerned  about 
the  threat  of  the  weather.  I  still  had  to  learn  a 
proper  respect  for  thunder-storms — the  same  very 


176       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

wholesome  kind  of  respect  that  I  had  for  really  rough 
water.  That  was  to  come  in  good  time,  and  by  the 
usual  channel — experience,  very  vivid  experience. 

I  had  not  yet  come  to  the  point  on  the  river  where 
Clark  had  built  and  launched  his  dugout.  Con- 
stantly searching  for  suitable  timber,  he  had  skirted 
the  northern  bank  closely  all  the  way  down  from 
where  he  had  first  come  to  the  Yellowstone  near  the 
present  site  of  Livingston.  The  flint-paved  mesas 
wore  down  the  hoofs  of  his  Indian  ponies  so  that  it 
became  necessary  to  protect  them  with  shoes  of  buf- 
falo hide.  This  increased  Clark's  anxiety  to  take  to 
the  river  and  his  diary  speaks  often  of  the  vain  search 
for  l^rge  trees.  Very  near  the  point  I  had  now 
reached  an  accident  occurred  which  eventually  forced 
Clark's  hand  and  probably  resulted  in  his  construct- 
ing his  boats  farther  up  river,  and  from  less  satis- 
factory material,  than  would  otherwise  have  been  the 
case.  The  incident  was  picturesquely  commemorated 
in  a  name  borne  by  a  certain  creek  upon  the  earlier 
maps. 

In  the  vicinity  of  the  creek  in  question,  Clark  tells 
how  one  of  his  men,  Gibson,  in  mounting  his  horse 
after  shooting  a  deer,  "fell  on  a  snag  and  runt  (ran) 
it  nearly  two  inches  into  the  muskeler  (muscular) 
part  of  his  thy  (thigh)."  That  incident  inspired 
Clark,  who  had  already  used  up  the  names  of  the 


^.«^'  ^ 


A    bWAGE     lilii-LE     NEAR    THE    SITE     UF     CAPTAIN     Cl^AUK  S     liOAT     CAMP 

(Above) 

SUNRISE  ON  A  QUIET  REACH  OF  THE  LOWER  YELLOWSTONE    (Below) 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         177 

members  of  his  party  a  half  dozen  times  over  in  geo- 
graphical nomenclature,  to  call  the  creek  "Thy 
Snag'd."  Gibson  suffered  so  much  from  the  jolting 
of  the  horse  upon  which  he  was  carried  after  his  in- 
jury that  it  became  necessary  to  rest  him  in  camp. 
With  a  halt  of  two  or  three  days  imperative  in  any 
case,  Clark  sought  out  the  best  brace  of  trees  in  the  vi- 
cinity and  set  his  men  making  dugouts.  Two  of  these, 
lashed  together  side  by  side,  made  a  craft  of  such 
water-worthiness  that  it  was  not  abandoned  until 
long  after  the  junction  with  Lewis  on  the  Missouri. 
Although  the  names  given  by  Clark  on  his  voyage 
down  the  Yellowstone  have  survived  better  than  have 
most  of  those  applied  by  the  explorers  in  other  re- 
gions, several  of  the  most  picturesque  have  not  stood 
the  test  of  time  and  chance.  Shield's  River,  Pryor's 
Fork  and  Clark's  Fork  still  bear  their  original  names, 
but  Thy  Snag'd  Creek  and  River  Across  are  no 
more.  The  former  has  become  Deer  Creek  and  the 
latter  pair  have  been  given  individual  names — that 
flowing  in  from  the  north  Big  Timber  Creek,  that 
from  the  south  Boulder  River.  No  more  original  and 
distinctive  dual  nomenclature  for  streams  flowing  into 
a  river  on  opposite  sides  of  the  same  point  could  have 
been  imagined.  It  is  a  pity  that,  in  the  nature  of 
the  case,  it  could  not  fill  the  nomenclatural  exigency 
sufficiently  to  survive. 


178      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Fortunately  for  me  the  peculiar  meteorological  con- 
ditions of  the  morning  did  not  develop  along  what  I 
subsequently  learned  was  their  normal  course  at  that 
time  of  year.  Ordinarily  a  pow-wow  of  thunder- 
storms in  the  mountain-top  in  the  morning  means  a 
concerted  attack  upon  the  valley  in  the  afternoon. 
This  time  the  advent  of  a  warm  southerly  wind  modi- 
fied the  assault-and-battery  program  and  brought 
only  a  drizzling'  rain  on  the  river.  The  broken  piers 
of  Greycliff 's  ruined  bridge  menaced  me  from  the  mist 
as  I  drove  past,  and  below  the  new  bridge  the 
sagging  strand  of  a  slackened  cable  swooped 
at  me  from  the  air.  Then  came  a  sharp 
bend,  with  the  roar  of  a  considerable  rapid  boom- 
ing in  the  grey  obscurity  below.  The  rain  and 
the  mist  deadened  the  sound  somewhat,  just  as  they 
confused  the  perspective.  Standing  up  on  the  thwart 
in  an  endeavour  to  get  a  better  view,  I  was  warned 
by  the  accelerating  undulations  of  the  skiff  that  I 
had  floated  right  onto  the  intake  of  a  riffle  which  I 
had  assumed  was  still  several  hundred  yards  distant. 
Hastening  to  straighten  the  cushion  on  my  seat  be- 
fore taking  to  my  oars,  I  was  jolted  from  my  feet  by 
the  first  solid  wave,  so  that  I  sat  with  my  full  weight 
upon  the  doubled-up  index  finger  of  my  left  hand. 
I  distinctly  recall  either  hearing  or  feeling  the  snap 
of  what  I  thought  at  the  moment  was  a  tendon,  but 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         179 

as  the  finger  still  crooked  with  its  fellow  round  its 
oar  I  gave  it  no  more  thought  until  I  had  slammed 
through  to  quieter  water,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below. 
Then  I  found  the  finger  was  bent  inward  to  the  re- 
semblance of  a  rather  open  letter  C.  Taking  it  for 
granted  it  was  dislocated,  I  started  and  kept  on  pull- 
ing it  until  another  riffle  demanded  personal  attention. 
Always  afraid  to  take  it  to  a  doctor  for  fear  of  be- 
ing held  up,  at  gradually  increasing  intervals  I  kept 
on  trying  to  pull  that  drooping  pointer  into  place 
for  the  next  two  months.  It  was  in  St.  Louis  that 
I  found  that  two  bones  had  been  broken  in  the  first 
place,  and  that  they  had  probably  been  re-broken 
every  time  I  pulled  the  finger  afterwards.  It  is  not 
quite  back  to  shape  yet,  which,  everything  considered, 
is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at. 

A  lifting  of  the  mist  accompanied  an  increase  in 
the  rain,  with  the  balance  inclining  toward  a  bet- 
ter visibility.  This  latter  came  opportunely,  for  the 
loom  of  high  cliffs  on  the  right  and  a  running  close 
of  the  rounded  hills  on  the  left  seemed  to  indicate 
a  canyon  and  bad  water.  It  was  an  agreeable  sur- 
prise to  find  only  a  straight,  swift  reach  of  river  bor- 
dered with  a  narrow  belt  of  cottonwood  on  either 
side.  There  appeared  no  menace  of  mist-masked  rap- 
ids ahead,  but  with  the  rain  settling  into  what  seemed 
likely  to  be  an  all-day  downpour  I  was  glad  to  pull 


180       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

up  to  the  left  bank  where  an  enchanting  vista  of  ranch 
buildings  opened  up  beneath  the  cottonwoods.  The 
tree  I  tied  up  to  had  a  trunk  fully  four  feet  in  diam- 
eter, and  I  was  puzzled  to  account  for  the  fact  that 
Clark  had  overlooked  it  in  his  search  for  boat  timber 
— until  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  grey-barked  giant 
was  perhaps  a  bit  smaller  with  a  hundred  and  six- 
teen fewer  annual  rings  on  it. 

There  are  a  number  of  pleasing  little  things  that 
happen  to  the  voyageur  by  the  Running  Road,  but 
not  many  that  awaken  a  warmer  glow  in  his  sodden 
breast  than  stepping  almost  direct  from  a  wet  boat 
into  a  kitchen  fragrant  with  the  ineffable  sweetness 
of  frying  doughnuts.  And  when  the  doughnuts  are 
being  forked  forth  by  an  astonishingly  comely  and 
kindly  young  housewife ;  and  when  her  husband  comes 
in  from  the  alfalfa  patch  and  proves  just  as  kindly  if 
less  comely ;  and  when  they  insist  on  your  drying  out 
and  staying  to  dinner  and  then — because  the  rain 
still  continues — to  supper  and  all  night;  and  when 
the  three  of  you  sit  up  till  all  hours  and  tell  each 
other  everything  you  ever  did — and  how — and  why: 
well,  all  that  just  makes  it  nicer  still. 

They  were  a  sterling  pair  of  young  pioneers,  these 
Fahlgrens.  Both  were  from  Kentucky.  He  had 
come  out  to  Montana  about  ten  years  before  and 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS        181 

homesteaded  what  he  reckoned  as  the  loveliest  spot 
on  the  whole  Yellowstone.  A  little  later  he  had  made 
a  hurried  trip  home  to  bring  back  a  young  woman  that 
he  reckoned  just  as  lovely  and  just  as  promising  as 
his  ranch.  Neither  had  disappointed  him.  His 
ranch  had  doubled  and  trebled  in  size,  with  his  family 
just  about  keeping  pace  with  it.  There  were  hard 
years  behind,  with  not  any  too  easy  sledding  at  the 
present ;  but  there  had  been  much  happiness  all  along 
the  road  and  the  future  was  bright  with  promise. 
How  heartening  it  was  even  to  brush  in  passing  such 
kindliness,  simplicity,  hopefulness  and  courage! 

We  had  Maryland  fried  chicken  and  a  big  golden 
pone  of  corn  bread  for  breakfast.  All  left  over  was 
put  up  for  my  lunch,  together  with  a  gooseberry  pie. 
As  the  early  morning  weather  was  still  fitful  and 
showery,  I  did  not  start  until  ten  o'clock,  taking  Fahl- 
gren  with  me  for  a  couple  of  miles  to  the  next  down- 
river ranch.  He  wanted  me  to  drift  a  rapid  stern- 
first,  as  the  agate  hunters  were  wont  to  do  it.  Trim- 
med as  we  were,  I  knew  what  must  happen.  I  agreed 
to  the  trial  readily  enough,  however,  partly  because 
it  was  Fahlgren's  suggestion  but  principally  because 
it  was  he,  and  not  I,  that  was  sitting  in  the  stern. 
Riding  so  low,  the  after  section  shipped  a  dozen 
bucketfuls  of  green  water,  all  of  it  via  my  passenger's 


182       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

knees.  The  riffle  was  not  rough  enough  to  make  any- 
real  trouble,  and  we  Jboth  took  the  thing  strictly  in 
a  larking  spirit. 

One  can  drift  a  riffle  stern  first  that  is  too  rough  to 
ride  any  other  way.  Facing  down-stream,  and  pull- 
ing against  the  current  the  headway  of  the  boat  is 
checked  and  it  is  easier  to  shoot  it  to  right  or  left  to 
avoid  an  obstacle.  If  the  riffle  is  not  too  rough  to 
make  the  control  of  the  boat  impossible  when  rowed 
bow-first  with  the  stream,  drifting  means  the  cutting 
down  of  speed  and  the  loss  of  much  good  time.  Also, 
a  boat  one  is  going  to  use  for  drifting  should  have  a 
stout,  high  stern  (whether  double-ended  or  not)  and 
temporarily  at  least,  it  should  be  lightened  aft  and 
trimmed  to  ride  well  down  by  the  head. 

Not  long  after  I  had  parted  with  Fahlgren  a  dis- 
tinct change  in  the  weather  took  place.  The  charged, 
humid  thunder-storm  condition  of  the  atmosphere 
gave  way  to  sharp,  keen  north-westerly  weather.  A 
strong  wind  became  a  stronger,  and  by  noon  the 
valley  was  swept  by  a  whistling  gale  blowing  straight 
from  the  main  western  mass  of  the  Rockies.  The 
fact  that  it  was  almost  dead  astern  as  the  general 
course  of  the  river  ran  was  the  only  thing  that  made 
keeping  on  the  water  a  thing  to  be  considered  at  all. 
An  equally  strong  gale  blowing  up-stream  would  have 
tried  to  stand  the  river  on  its  head  and  scoop  the  chan- 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         18B 

nel  dry.  It  would  have  succeeded  in  neither,  but 
the  resulting  rough-and-tumble  would  have  kicked 
up  a  wild  welter  of  white  caps  such  as  no  skiff  could 
have  lived  in  for  half  a  minute.  But  with  current 
and  wind  going  in  the  same  general  direction  it  was 
quite  another  matter,  especially  as  I  had  a  chance  to 
ease  up  to  it  gradually  as  the  gale  increased  in  force. 
I  was  making  such  tremendous  headway,  and  the 
spell  of  the  wild  ride  was  so  strong  in  my  blood,  that 
my  wonted  cautiousness  was  swamped  in  a  rising  tide 
of  exhilaration.  There  are  few  who  will  not  have 
experienced  the  feeling  of  being  intoxicated  with 
swift  air  and  rapid  motion.  It  was  more  than  that 
with  me  this  time.  I  was  inebriated — stewed — loaded 
to  the  guards.  I  was  having  the  time  of  my  young 
life  and  I  hadn't  the  least  intention  of  going  homei 
until  morning. 

Now  in  real  life  a  man  who  starts  out  in  such  a 
state  of  exaltation  always  bangs  up  against  some 
immovable  body  good  and  hard  before  he  is  through. 
Or,  more  properly  speaking,  his  getting  through  is 
more  or  less  coincident  with  his  banging  against  such 
a  body.  Why  something  like  that  didn't  put  a  period 
to  my  mad  career  on  this  occasion  has  never  been  clear 
in  my  mind.  Possibly  that  more  or  less  mythical 
Providence  that  has  been  known  (though  by  no 
means  often  enough  to  warrant  the  proverb)  to  shep- 


184       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

herd  drunks  and  fools  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
At  any  rate^  I  was  still  in  mad  career  down  mid- 
stream when  the  wind  gave  up  the  bootless  chase  at 
six  o'clock,  broke  up  into  fitful  zephyrs  and  went  to 
sleep  among  the  cottonwoods.  In  all  that  time  I  had 
not  landed  once,  had  not  relinquished  both  oars  for 
a  single  second,  and  had  not  even  munched  my  Mary- 
land fried  chicken  and  gooseberry  pie.  Skippers  have 
stood  longer  watches,  but  never  a  one  has  carried  on 
with  less  relief.  On  that  score,  perhaps,  I  may  have 
deserved  to  win  through.  On  every  other  count  I 
was  going  out  of  my  way  to  ask  for  trouble  and  had 
nothing  but  my  lucky  star  to  thank  for  having* 
avoided  it. 

I  passed  Reed  Point  and  Columbus  early  in  the 
afternoon.  Beyond  the  latter  point  I  began  keeping 
watch  for  a  certain  long  line  of  bluffs  which  I  knew 
began  near  the  railway  station  called  Rapids  and  ex- 
tended easterly  for  three  miles.  Clark  had  called 
them  "Black  Bluffs,"  and  that  name  they  retain  to 
this  day,  though  their  only  claim  to  blackness  even 
in  Clark's  time  came  from  the  presence  of  dark  green 
undergrowth.  Today  they  are  brown  and  compara- 
tively bare. 

I  picked  up  the  rounded  skyline  of  "Black  Bluffs" 
at  just  about  the  time  that  the  straight,  hard-running 
riffle  that  gives  Rapids  Station  its  name  began  to 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         185 

boom  ahead.  The  middle  of  the  riffle  was  plainly  no 
place  for  a  little  tin  shallop,  but  down  the  right  side 
there  appeared  to  to  be  fairly  open  channel.  Set- 
tling that  course  in  my  mind,  I  let  the  tail  of  my  eye 
steal  back  to  the  head  of  the  bluff,  and  from 
there  to  a  cottonwood  covered  flat  that  opened  up  be- 
yond the  bend  where  the  river,  thrown  off  a 
ledge  of  bedrock,  turned  sharply  to  the  south  in 
a  stohd  stream  of  rock-torn  white.  Beyond  ques- 
tion there  was  going  to  be  some  fairly  nice  naviga- 
tion demanded  to  find  a  way  through  that  rough  stuff 
below  the  bend,  especially  as  the  wind  was  going  to 
come  strongly  abeam  for  a  short  distance.  All  of 
which  was  hard  luck,  I  complained  to  myself,  for 
the  end  of  that  line  of  bluffs  pointed  an  unerring 
finger  at  the  flat  below  them  as  the  place  where 
Clark  had  halted,  built  his  boats  and  taken  to  the  river. 
I  had  hoped  for  a  better  look  at  it  than  I  saw*  I 
was  going  to  get. 

Even  the  pressing  exigencies  of  the  navigational 
problem  could  not  quite  obliterate  from  my  mind  the 
realization  of  the  fact  that — from  some  point  not  more 
than  a  few  insignificant  hundreds  of  yards  ahead — 
Captain  William  Clark  was  going  to  be  my  pilot  all 
the  way  to  St.  Louis.  Exulting  over  that  wasn't 
what  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  trouble,  however. 
You  can  tread  a  lot  of  highways  and  byways  of  fancy 


186       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

without  seriously  imparing  your  river  navigation,  but 
only  when  you  keep  your  eyes  on  the  water  and  the 
back  of  your  mind  in  a  proper  state  to  receive  impres- 
sions and  transmit  orders.  I  was  not  in  the  least 
culpable  in  this  respect.  The  reason  I  hit  that  mid- 
stream snag  was  because  a  sudden  hail  from  some 
m.en  grading  a  road  over  the  bluff  caused  just 
enough  of  a  congestion  of  my  ganglionic  lines  to  slow 
down  proper  and  adequate  action.  I  checked  by  an 
effort  the  impulse  to  cup  a  hand  to  an  ear  in  an  at- 
tempt to  catch  the  import  of  what  was  doubtless  a 
warning  of  some  sort,  but  as  a  consequence  failed 
to  get  through  in  time  the  order  for  my  left  hand  to 
back  its  oar  when  the  imminent  snag  bobbed  up. 

The  skiff  struck  on  her  starboard  bow,  slid  along 
the  snag  for  a  few  feet,  and  then  swung  and  hung 
there,  side-on  to  the  current  and  the  wind.  White 
water  dashed  in  over  the  up-stream  gunwale  and  min- 
gled with  green  water  poured  over  the  down-stream. 
But  just  before  the  forces  from  above  threw  her  com- 
pletely on  her  beams-ends  the  flexible  root  bent  down 
and  let  her  swing  off  without  capsizing.  It  was  a 
merry  dance  to  the  bend,  but  I  managed  to  get  her 
under  control  in  time  to  head  into  the  best  of  the  go- 
ing through  the  suds  below.  This  was  close  to  the 
right  bank,  where  I  had  no  little  trouble  in  holding 
her  on  account  of  the  side-urge  from  the  heavy  west 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         187 

wind.  This  is  not  a  hard  series  of  riffles  to  run  if  you 
have  no  bad  luck,  but  an  upset  in  the  upper  riffle 
would  leave  you  at  the  mercy  of  the  lower,  which  is  a 
savage  tumble  of  combers  filling  most  of  the  channel. 
In  that  respect  this  double  riffle  below  Rapids  Sta- 
tion is  a  good  deal  like  the  combination  of  Rock  Slide 
and  Death  Rapids  on  the  Big  Bend  of  the  Columbia. 
The  latter  pair  are,  however,  incomparably  the 
rougher. 

I  was  a  mile  away  and  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
valley  before  I  got  rid  of  enough  water  to  survey 
for  damages.  A  long,  jagged  scratch  down  the  side, 
with  a  big,  round  dent  at  the  point  of  first  impact, 
were  the  only  marks  she  showed  of  the  collision. 
Light  as  was  the  steel,  it  had  not  come  near  to  holing 
from  a  blow  that  stopped  her  dead  from  at  least 
twelve  miles  an  hour.  This  renewed  assurance  of  the 
staunchness  of  my  tight  little  tin  pan  was  by  no  means 
unwelcome.  There  would  still  be  a  lot  of  things  to 
bump  into,  even  after  leaving  the  Yellowstone. 

My  only  mental  picture  of  the  site  of  Clark's  ship- 
yard was  that  received  from  the  one  hurried  glance  as 
I  came  to  the  upper  rapid.  There  was  no  chance  for 
a  second  look.  Sentimentally  I  was  sorry  not  to  have 
been  able  to  land  and  pretend  to  look  for  the  stumps 
of  the  trees  cut  down  for  the  dugouts.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  however,  as  the  river  had  been  altering  its 


188       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

channel  every  season  for  over  a  hundred  years,  there 
was  no  question  in  my  mind  but  that  the  shipyard 
flat  had  been  made  and  washed  out  a  score  of  times 
since  Clark  was  there. 

Captain  Clark's  party  spent  four  days  building  the 
two  dugout  canoes  and  exploring  in  this  vicinity. 
Twenty-four  of  their  horses  were  stolen  by  Indians 
and  never  recovered.  The  same  fate  ultimately  over- 
took the  remainder  of  the  bunch,  which  Sergeant 
Pryor  and  two  others  were  attempting  to*  drive  over- 
land to  the  Mandan  villages  on  the  Missouri.  Clark 
described  the  canoes  as  "twenty-eight  feet  long,  six- 
teen or  eighteen  inches  deep  and  from  sixteen  to 
twenty-four  inches  wide."  Lashed  together,  these 
must  have  made  a  clumsy  but  very  serviceable  craft. 
Considering  its  weight  and  type,  their  first-day  run 
in  it — from  Rapids  to  the  mouth  of  Pryor's  Fork, 
near  Huntley — strikes  me  as  being  a  remarkable  one. 
The  Captain's  actual  estimates  of  distances  on  this 
part  of  his  journey  are  much  too  high  and  also  pre- 
sent many  discrepancies.  This  particular  run,  how- 
ever, is  easy  fixable  by  natural  features.  It  must  be 
very  close  to  sixty  miles  as  the  river  winds,  possibly 
more.  It  is  not  fair  to  compare  this  with  the  consid- 
erably faster  time  I  made  over  similar  stretches  of  the 
Yellowstone.  I  had  considerably  higher  and  swifter 
water  and  a  boat  so  light  that  no  delays  from  shallows 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS        189 

and  bars  were  imposed.  Very  generally  speaking,  I 
found  my  rate  of  travel  on  the  Yellowstone  to 
have  worked  out  about  twenty-five  per  cent, 
faster  than  that  of  Clark's  party.  On  the  Mis- 
souri, on  stretches  where  I  did  not  use  my  outboard 
motor,  I  averaged  just  about  the  same  as  the  united 
explorers  on  their  down-stream  voyage.  There  is 
little  doubt  that  they  stopped  longer  and  oftener 
than  I  did  on  the  Missouri,  and  that  while  on  the 
river  their  big  crews  snatched  along  whatever  type 
of  craft  they  happened  to  be  manning  at  a  consider- 
ably faster  rate  than  I  pulled.  By  and  large,  how- 
ever, I  should  say  that  Kipling's 

"Down  to  Gehenna  or  up  to  the  Throne, 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone," 

holds  quite  as  good  on  the  Running  Road  as  in  Life's 
Handicap. 

In  the  journal  of  the  first  day  on  the  river  Cap- 
tain Clark  writes:  "At  the  distance  of  a  mile  from 
camp  the  river  passes  under  a  high  bluff  for  about 
23  miles,  when  the  bottom  widens  on  both  sides." 
This  would  give  the  impression  that  the  river  flowed 
continuously  for  many  miles  under  an  overhanging 
bluff.  This  it  does  not  do,  and  could  hardly  have 
done  at  any  previous  period.  What  it  does  do  is  to 
run  along  the  base  of  a  long  chain  of  broken  bluffs, 


190      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

many  of  which  it  has  undermined.  I  have  always 
thought  of  this  as  by  long  odds  the  most  beautiful 
and  picturesque  stretch  of  stream  I  navigated  between 
the  Rockies  and  the  lower  Mississippi. 

The  bluffs  varied  in  natural  colour  from  a  grey- 
brown  to  a  reddish-black,  but  mosses  and  lichens  and 
mineral  stains  from  the  hills  behind  tinted  their  abrupt 
faces  with  streaks  and  patches  of  various  shades,  all 
blended  like  delicate  pastelling.  The  main  stream 
usually  ran  close  up  against  the  bluffs,  but  numerous 
chutes  and  back-channels  sprawling  over  the  verdant 
flats  to  the  left  formed  score  on  score  of  small  islands, 
all  shaded  with  tall  cottonwoods,  lush  with  new  grass 
and  brilliant  with  wild  flowers.  There  was  a  fresh 
vista  of  beauty  at  every  turn.  It  was  a  shame  not 
to  be  able  to  stop  and  call  on  the  Queen  of  the  Fair- 
ies. Titania's  Bowers  succeeded  each  other  like 
apartments  on  upper  Broadway.  For  the  second 
time!  that  day  I  regretted  my  speed  and  the  fact 
that  wind  and  rough  water  kept  my  attention  riveted 
close  to  the  boat. 

At  first  I  gave  the  face  of  the  bluffs  a  wide  berth, 
especially  at  those  points  where  the  full  strength  of 
the  current  went  swirling  beneath  the  painted  over- 
hang in  sinuous  coils  of  green  and  white.  As  I 
think  of  it  now,  it  was  the  cavernous  growls  and  rum- 
bles, magnified  by  the  sounding  board  of  the  cliff, 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         191 

that  made  me  chary  of  venturing  in  where  the  ani- 
mals were  being  fed.  The  racket  was  not  a  Httle  ter- 
rifying until  one  found  that  it  was  more  bark  than 
bite. 

It  was  not  until  a  sudden  side-swiping  squall 
forced  me  under  an  overhang  I  was  doing  my  best  to 
avoid  that  I  had  direct  and  conclusive  evidence  that 
the  yawning  mouths  had  no  teeth  in  them.  Swift  as 
it  was,  the  surface  of  the  water  was  untorn  by  lurk- 
ing rocks,  while  the  refluent  waves  from  the  inner 
depths  of  the  cavern  had  a  tendency  to  force  the 
boat  out  rather  than  to  draw  it  in.  My  courage  ral- 
lied rapidly  after  that,  so  that  I  played  hide-and- 
seek  with  the  river  and  the  cliffs  for  the  next  twenty 
miles.  This  was  most  opportune,  as  it  chanced. 
The  overhangs  provided  me  with  cover  from  the  worst 
of  a  heavy  series  of  rain  squalls  that  began  to  sweep 
the  river  at  this  juncture,  and  continued  for  an  hour 
or  more.  All  in  all,  that  httle  bluff -bluffing  stunt 
proved  one  of  the  most  novel  and  delightful  bits  of 
boating  I  have  ever  known. 

I  passed  the  mouth  of  Clark's  Fork  a  little  before 
six.  Its  channel  was  much  divided  by  gravel  bars, 
and  the  comparatively  small  streams  might  easily 
have  been  mistaken  for  returning  back-chutes  of  the 
Yellowstone.  Clark  had  at  first  mistaken  this  river 
for  the  Big  Horn,  and  only  applied  his  own  name  to  it 


192       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

when  the  greater  tributary  was  reached  some  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  below.  I  scooped  up  a  drink  as  I 
passed  one  of  the  mouths.  Clark's  observation  that 
it  was  colder  and  cloudier  than  the  waters  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone still  held  good.  Clark  mentions  a  "ripple  in 
the  Yellowstone"  about  a  mile  about  this  tributary, 
"on  passing  which  the  canoes  took  in  some  water. 
The  party  therefore  landed  to  bail  the  boats.  .  .  ." 
As  this,  considering  the  size  of  the  boats,  would  have 
indicated  very  rough  water,  I  kept  a  close  watch 
for  the  place.  I  never  located  it  definitely,  though 
sharp  rijflSes  were  numerous  all  the  way.  Doubtless 
parts  of  the  channel  have  altered  completely  since 
Clark's  time.  As  a  rule,  however,  rapids  change  less 
with  the  years  than  the  opener  stretches — this  be- 
cause they  are  usually  made  by  bedrock  or  boulders 
of  great  size. 

I  made  my  first  landing  since  dropping  Fahlgren 
at  a  flower-embowered  farmhouse  not  far  below  the 
mouth  of  Clark's  Fork.  All  of  the  family  were 
away  except  a  very  motherly  old  lady  who  had  just 
received  word  by  phone  from  Billings  that  Dempsey 
had  licked  Carpentier.  She  had  draped  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  over  the  porch  railing  and  insisted  that 
I  stop  and  celebrate  the  great  national  victory  with 
her.  I  demurred,  but  my  resolution  weakened  when 
she  began  setting  out  a  pan  of  scarcely  diluted  cream. 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         193 

a  bowl  of  strawberries  and  a  chocolate  cake.  Be- 
tween mouthfuls  I  told  her  (truthfully  enough)  that 
I  had  met  Carpentier  at  the  Front  during  the  war 
and  had  subsequently  seen  him  box  in  London.  It 
was  a  tactical  error  on  my  part.  I  should  have  known 
better.  She  didn't  tell  me  to  back  away  from  the 
berries  in  so  many  words,  but  her  manner  changed, 
and  she  did  say  that  it  was  too  bad  it  was  not  Demp- 
sey  I  had  met  instead  of  the  Frenchie.  That  didn't 
spoil  my  appetite  for  the  strawberries  and  cream,  but 
it  did  make  me  more  conservative  in  my  relations 
with  them.  I  probably  stopped  short  by  two  or  three 
helpings  of  my  capacity.  It  is  not  fair  to  one's  self 
to  be  bound  by  the  rigid  limitations  of  truthfulness 
when  trying  to  impress  strangers.  I  resolved  not  to 
make  that  mistake  again. 

Water  had  been  unusually  high  all  along  the  Yel- 
lowstone during  the  early  summer  rise,  the  crest  of 
which  was  now  over  by  about  a  fortnight.  The  dis- 
charge from  Clark's  Fork  had  been  especially  heavy, 
and  the  effects  of  this  I  began  to  encounter  as  soon  as ' 
I  resumed  my  run  to  Billings.  Scores  of  new  chan- 
nels had  been  scoured  out  and  countless  thousands  of 
big  cottonwoods  and  willows  uprooted  in  the  process. 
Most  of  the  latter  were  stranded  on  shallow  bars,  but 
every  now  and  then  some  great  giant  had  anchored 
itself  squarely  in  mid-channel.     It  took  no  end  of 


194       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

care  to  avoid  them,  and  it  was  a  distinct  relief  to 
find  that  the  wind  had  now  fallen  very  light. 

My  old  strawberry  lady  had  estimated  the  distance 
to  Billings  as  about  twenty  miles,  but  such  was  the 
extreme  deviousness  of  the  endlessly  divided  chan- 
nels that  it  must  have  been  greatly  in  excess  of  that. 
One  minute  I  would  be  in  what  was  undoubtedly  the 
main  channel.  The  next  I  would  be  picking  what 
seemed  the  likeliest  of  four  or  five  sprawling  chutes, 
with  whichever  one  I  took  usually  dividing  and  re- 
dividing  until  I  found  myself  scraping  through  the 
shallows  and  all  but  grounded. 

With  no  town  in  sight  as  eight  o'clock  began  to 
usher  in  the  long  midsummer  twilight,  I  landed  near 
a  large  farmhouse  on  the  left  bank  to  make  inquiries. 
The  buildings  were  fine  and  modern  and  the  ir- 
rigated acres  of  great  richness,  but  the  people  turned 
out  to  be  Russian  tenants,  and  not  much  for  the 
softer  things  of  life.  All  of  the  dozen  or  more  oc- 
cupants of  the  big  kitchen  wore  bib  overalls,  the  bot- 
toms puckered  in  with  a  zouave-trousers  effect.  All 
were  barefooted.  The  father  and  mother  wore  shirts. 
For  the  rest,  including  the  grown  children,  the  only 
garments  were  the  comfortable  and  adequate  over- 
alls. Left  to  himself,  the  simple  moujik  hits  upon 
some  very  practical  ideas. 

Save  the  broad,  kindly  Slavic  faces,  the  only  Rus- 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         195 

sian  thing  I  saw  about  the  place  was  a  samovar,  and  I 
sipped  a  mug  of  tea  from  this  peacefully  purring  old 
friend  while  I  endeavoured  to  find  out  whether  any  of 
them  knew  anything  of  the  whereabouts  of  a  certain 
Montana  metropolis  called  Billings.  They  appeared 
to  be  trying  to  assure  me  that  they  had  heard  of  such 
a  place,  and  there  also  seemed  to  be  some  unanimity 
on  the  score  of  its  being  somewhere  down  river.  But 
just  how  far  it  was  by  river  they  couldn't  get  to- 
gether on,  and  even  if  they  had  had  any  real  knowl- 
edge of  the  course  of  the  stream  they  appeared  not  to 
have  the  language  to  express  it.  Certainly  an  esti- 
mate in  versts  wasn't  going  to  help  a  lot.  As  I 
thanked  them  and  turned  to  go  the  whole  family 
trooped  down  to  the  landing  to  see  me  off.  Point- 
ing eastward  to  the  low  line  of  a  distant  bluff  one 
of  the  boys  delivered  himself  of  a  laconic  "Dam — 
lookout!"  I  assured  him  I  had  already  been  warned 
of  the  dam  of  the  local  power  company,  and 
would  be  keeping  just  that  kind  of  a  good  look- 
out for  it.  That  gave  them  their  cue.  They  were 
all  ejaculating  or  registering  "Dam — good — ^look- 
out!" as  the  current  bore  me  away  into  the  deepening 
dusk. 

That  last  half -hour's  run  was  an  intensely  trying 
one,  though  I  was  never  in  serious  trouble  any  of  the 
time.     I  kept  going  wrong  on  channels  every  few 


196       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

minutes,  with  the  result  that  I  found  every  now  and 
then  that  the  Yellowstone  had  gone  off  and  left  me 
on  a  streak  of  wet  rocks  and  gravel.  With  a  heavy- 
boat  I  should  have  been  marooned  for  the  night  a 
dozen  times,  but  it  was  never  very  difficult  to  drag 
my  little  tin  shallop  on  to  where  there  was  enough 
water  trickling  to  lead  the  way  back  to  the  main  chan- 
nel. When  an  increasing  frequency  of  lights  in- 
dicated I  was  nearing  the  outskirts  of  a  town  I  found 
the  current  to  be  running  so  swiftly  along  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  levee  on  the  left  bank  that  a  landing 
was  rather  too  precarious  to  risk  in  the  dark.  I  was 
skirting  the  bank  for  a  favourable  eddy  when  the 
rounding  of  a  densely  wooded  bend  brought  me  out  in- 
to a  stretch  of  slackening  water  directly  above  the  dam. 
The  long-striven-for  bluff  appeared  to  rise  abruptly 
from  the  water  on  my  right,  while  on  my  left  there 
was  a  stretch  of  gravel  bar  running  back  to  a  strip 
of  trees  and  the  levee. 

The  roar  of  the  dam  was  not  the  less  impressive 
after  bouncing  off  the  bluff  on  its  way  to  my  ears,  and 
I  took  no  more  time  than  was  necessary  to  pull  in 
and  land  upon  the  white  stretch  of  beach.  As  rain 
was  still  threatening  I  decided  to  seek  the  town  for 
shelter.  Dragging  the  skiff  well  above  high-water- 
mark, I  stacked  by  stuff  in  it,  shouldered  my  pack- 
sack  and  climbed  the  levee.     After  an  hour's  bootless 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         197 

wanderings  in  the  sloughs  beyond  I  came  back  and 
followed  the  levee  a  half  mile  down-stream  to  the 
power-house  below  the  dam.     And  so  to  town. 

Suppering  at  a  convenient  lunch-counter,  I  drank 
copiously  of  coffee  from  the  steaming  urn  at  my  el- 
bow. Now  of  all  of  the  drinks  of  the  ancient  and 
modern  world  that  I  have  known,  lunch-counter  cof- 
fee has  always  proved  the  most  inebriating.  That 
was  why  I  was  impelled  to  fare  forth  to  the  prize- 
fight bulletin  boards  seeking  low  companionship,  and 
that  must  have  been  why  I  put  the  French  on  "Car- 
penter," and  why  I  tried  to  affect  vulgar  ringside 
jargon. 

"Kar-pon-tee-ayh  K.  O.-ed,  huh?"  I  grunted 
familiarly,  lounging  up  to  a  knot  of  local  sports  dis- 
cussing pugilistic  esoterics  before  the  newspaper 
window.  For  an  instant  the  jabbering  ceased — just 
long  enough  for  the  half  dozen  technical  experts  to 
sweep  my  mud-spattered  khaki  with  scathing  glances, 
snort  and  get  under  way  again.  Only  one  of  them 
was  polite  enough  to  say:  "No  savee  Crow  talkee," 
adding  to  a  companion:  "Indian  policeman — Crow 
Reservation — funny  don't  talk  'Merican." 

That  certainly  was  not  a  good  start.  On  the  con- 
trary, indeed,  it  was  a  perfectly  rotten  one.  Which 
fact  only  makes  me  more  proud  of  the  resiliency  of 
spirit  I  showed  in  coming  right  back  and  assuring 


198       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

them  that  I  was  not  a  Crow  Indian,  that  I  did  talk 
'Merican,  and  that  I  had  been  one  of  Jack  Dempsey's 
first  sparring  partners.  There  was  coffee-inspired 
artistry,  too,  in  the  inconsequentiality  with  which  I 
added:  "Gave  Jack  the  K.  O.  once  myself.  Sort  of 
a  flivver  .  .  .  but  knocked  him  cold  just  the  same." 

Dear  little  old  Strawberry  Lady,  didn't  I  swear  I 
wouldn't  forget  the  lesson  you  taught  me?  That 
made  them  take  notice  of  course.  For  an  instant 
they  hung  in  the  balance,  searching  my  scarred  and 
battered  visage  with  awed,  troubled  eyes.  Then 
dawning  wonder  replaced  doubt  in  their  faces,  and 
they  fell — ^my  way.  "Darn'd  if  you  don't  look  the 
part,"  said  one.  "My  name's  Allstein — in  hardware 
line —  Shake  1"  And  then  they  all  introduced  them- 
selves like  that — each  with  his  name  and  line.  I  for- 
get just  what  my  name  was,  but  it  must  have  been 
something  like  "Spud"  Gallagher.  Sparring  partners 
never  vary  greatly  from  that  model  of  nomenclature. 

Finally  we  retired  to  a  pool-room,  where  I  remin- 
isced to  an  ever  augmenting  audience.  Alas  I  and  yet 
Alack-a-day!  If  it  had  only  been  the  good  old  cow- 
town  Billings  of  those  delectable  baseball  days  of 
twenty  years  ago,  what  wouldn't  have  been  mine  that 
night!  But  it  was  not  bad  as  it  was;  not  bad  at  all. 
I  forget  just  where  we  were  when  dawn  came,  but 
I  do  remember  I  was  in  the  act  of  showing  my  punch- 


BIG  TIMBER  TO  BILLINGS         199 

damaged  hands  for  the  hundreth  time  when  I  looked 
up  and  saw  that  a  window  was  growing  a  glimmering 
square  with  the  light  of  the  coming  day.  That  was 
my  cue,  of  course.  Excusing  myself  on  some  pre- 
text, I  slipped  out  the  back  way,  slunk  through  an 
alley,  and  finally  to  the  street  which  leads  past  the 
sugar  refinery  down  to  the  power-house  and  the  river. 
For  many  days  after  that  I  felt  less  envious  of  good 
old  Haroun  al  Raschid. 


CHAPTER  V 

BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE 

Getting  round  the  power-dam  did  not  prove  a  seri- 
ous problem.  The  night  man  at  the  power-house 
told  me  it  would  be  possible  to  land  on  the  right  side 
and  let  the  boat  down  over  a  series  of  "steps"  that  had 
been  built  at  that  end  of  the  dam.  This  was  prob- 
ably true,  but  as  landing  on  the  almost  perpendicu- 
lar cliff  immediately  above  the  drop-off  looked  a  bit 
precarious  I  decided  in  favour  of  being  safe  by  por- 
taging rather  than  run  the  chance  of  being  sorry 
through  trying  to  line  down.  It  was  against  just 
such  emergencies  as  this  that  I  had  provided  my  feath- 
er-weight outfit. 

A  wooden  skiff  of  the  size  of  my  steel  one  would 
have  required  at  least  four  men  to  lift  it  up  the  forty- 
five  degree  slope  of  the  bank  above  the  intake  of  the 
power  canal.  It  was  not  an  easy  task  with  my  little 
shallop,  but  I  managed  it  alone  without  undue  exer- 
tion. Five  minutes  more  sufficed  to  drag  it  a  couple 
of  hundred  feet  along  the  levee  and  launch  it  at  the 
head  of  the  rapid  below  the  dam.  Two  trips  brought 
down  my  outfit,  and  I  was  off  into  the  river  again. 

200 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  201 

Running  at  a  slashing  rate  round  the  bend  of  the 
bluff,  I  kept  on  for  a  couple  of  miles  or  more  to 
where  the  Northern  Pacific  and  a  highway  bridge 
span  the  river  a  couple  of  miles  from  the  centre  of 
Billings.  Leaving  the  boat  and  my  outfit  in  the  care 
of  a  genial  pumping-house  engineer,  I  phoned  for  a 
taxi  and  went  up  to  the  hotel  behind  closed  curtains. 
To  return  to  the  scene  of  my  last  night's  triumph  as 
a  mere  river-rat  and  hack  writer  was  a  distinct  anti- 
climax. As  I  had  been  warned  by  wire  that  a  hun- 
dred pages  of  urgently  needed  proofs  from  New  York 
would  await  me  in  Billings  for  correction,  there  was 
no  side-stepping  the  necessity.  The  risk  would  have 
to  be  run,  but  to  minimize  it  as  far  as  was  humanly 
possible  I  planned  to  keep  to  my  room  as  much  as  I 
could,  and  to  disguise  myself  by  dressing  as  a  gentle- 
man or  a  drummer  when  I  had  to  venture  upon  the 
streets.  Then  by  keeping  to  the  more  refined  parts 
of  towns  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  ought  to  stand  a  rea- 
sonably good  chance  of  avoiding  the  poignancy  of 
humiliation  that  would  inevitably  follow  recognition 
by  any  of  those  fine  fellows  who  had  sat  at  my  feet  the 
night  before.  It  was  a  well  devised  plan,  and  so 
came  pretty  near  to  succeeding. 

I  tumbled  out  of  my  bath  into  bed,  stayed  there  an 
hour,  got  up,  dressed  in  immaculate  flannels  and 
started  in  on  the  proofs.     A  reporter  from  the  Ga- 


202       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

zette  called  up  about  noon  to  say  he  had  been  lying 
in  ambush  for  me  ever  since  the  Livingston  papers 
had  warned  him  of  my  departure.  Could  he  come 
over  for  a  story?  I  couldn't  very  well  refuse  that, 
but  took  the  precaution  of  throwing  my  "Indian  Po- 
lice" uniform  in  the  closet  before  he  arrived.  Then 
I  made  a  special  point  of  telling  him  I  always  wore 
flannels  and  duck  on  mpr  river  trips — sort  of  survival 
of  my  South  Sea  yatching  days.  If  he  would  only 
put  that  in,  I  reckoned,  it  would  effectually  drag  a 
red  herring  across  any  suspicions  that  might  be 
aroused  by  a  reading  of  the  story  in  the  minds  of  my 
late  subjects.  He  forgot  it  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but 
it  wasn't  that  that  did  the  harm.  It  was  just  hard 
luck — Joss^  as  the  sailors  say. 

The  next  day  was  the  Fourth  of  July,  a  holiday, 
but  a  very  obliging  express  agent,  who  came  down 
town  and  opened  up  his  office  to  let  me  get  out  a  sleep- 
ing bag,  made  it  unnecessary  to  hang  on  another 
night  in  Billings.  The  Gazette  story  brought  no  dem- 
onstrations— that  is,  of  a  hostile  nature.  Calls  from 
scouting  secretaries  searching  for  a  fatted  calf  to 
butcher  for  club  holidays  were  the  only  ripples  on  the 
surface.  Still  with  my  fingers  crossed,  I  ordered  a 
closed  taxi  for  the  run  down  to  my  boat.  It  would 
have  been  a  perfectly  clean  get-away  had  not  Joss' 
decreed  that  I  should  leave  my  package  at  the  rail- 


©  L.  A.  Huffman 


©  L.  A.  Huffman 


HERD,  POWDER  RIVER  VALLEY    {AboVe) 

SHEEP  BY  THE  WATER,  BIG  POWDER  RIVER   (Below) 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  203 

way  station  to  be  picked  up  as  I  went  by.  Returning 
to  the  taxi  from  the  check-room  a  man  was  waiting 
for  me  outside  of  the  door. 

"My  name  is  Allstein,"  he  began;  but  I  had  ob- 
served that  before  he  opened  his  hard-set  jaw. 
Without  waiting  for  him  to  go  on  I  made  one  wild, 
despairing  bid  to  keep  my  honour  white.  I  feel  to 
this  day  that  it  deserved  to  have  succeeded. 

"Came  in  on  the  brake-beams,  going  out  on  shank's 
mare,"  I  chirruped  bhthely,  and  forthwith  (to  the 
very  evident  perturbation  of  the  taxi-driver)  started 
as  if  off  for  Miles  City  on  foot.  Some  will  say  my 
reasoning  was  quixotic,  but  this  was  the  way  of  it  at 
any  rate :  I  cared  no  whit  if  hardware-drummer  All- 
stein  believed  I  was  a  hobo,  just  as  long  as  he  con- 
tinued to  believe  I  was  an  ex-sparring  partner  of 
Jack  Dempsey.  And  what  he  must  be  prevented  from 
knowing  at  any  cost  was  that,  far  from  being  even 
the  hammiest  of  ham-and-sparring  partners,  I  was 
what  the  Gazette  cub  had  characterized  as  a  "daring 
novelist  seeking  material  for  new  book  by  running 
rapids  of  Yellowstone." 

But  the  fat  was  already  in  the  fire.  Allstein  halted 
my  Miles  City  Marathon  with  a  gesture  half  weary, 
half  contemptuous.  "That  taxi  looks  about  as  much 
like  you're  hoboing  as  did  them  three  dishes  of  straw- 
berries at  the  Northern  this  morning,"  he  growled, 


204.       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE     ^ml\ 

glowering.  I  caved  at  once  and  meekly  asked  him 
to  get  in  and  come  down  to  see  my  little  steel  boat. 
Lightest  outfit  that  ever  went  down  river.  .  .  .  Boat 
and  all  my  stuff  weighed  less  than  I  did  myself.  .  .  . 

I  was  in  the  taxi  by  that  time.  AUstein  had  con- 
tinued to  register  "Betrayed!  Betrayed!"  but  had  not 
moved  to  cut  off  my  retreat.  That  was  something  to 
be  thankful  for  anyhow.  Not  knowing  what  else  to 
say,  I  remarked  to  the  driver  that  it  must  be  getting 
along  toward  boat-time.  And  so  away  we  went.  All- 
stein's  reproachful  gaze  bored  into  my  back  until 
we  swung  out  of  eye-range  into  the  Custer  Trail.  I 
know  that  I  shall  be  reminded  of  him  every  time  I 
see  a  ruined  maiden  in  the  movies  or  at  Drury  Lane 
to  the  end  of  my  days. 

Billings  is  a  fine  modem  city,  which  makes  me  re- 
gret all  the  more  that  most  of  my  daylight  impressions 
of  it  had  to  be  gained  by  peeking  under  a  taxicab 
curtain.  It  is  by  long  odds  the  largest  town  on  the 
Yellowstone;  in  fact,  I  saw  no  city  comparable  with  it 
for  size  and  vigour  until  at  Sioux  City  I  came  to  the 
first  of  the  packing-house  metropolises  of  the  Mis- 
souri. Billings  owed  its  first  prosperity  to  cattle  and 
sheep  and  its  fine  strategic  situation  for  distribution. 
Pastoral  industries  cut  less  of  a  figure  today,  but  the 
town  has  continued  to  gain  ground  as  the  principal 
distributing  centre  for  western  Montana.  .  That,  with 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  205 

agricultural  and  power  development,  has  brought 
mills  and  factories,  and  the  town  now  ranks  high 
among  the  manufacturing  centres  of  the  North-west. 
I  shall  live  in  hopes  of  going  back  some-day  and  see- 
ing Billings  properly — as  a  visiting  Chamber  of 
Commerce  booster  or  a  Rotary  excursionist,  or  some- 
thing equally  sans  reproche. 

The  point  where  the  Northern  Pacific  Railway 
bridge  crosses  the  Yellowstone  below  Billings  is  of 
considerable  interest  historically.  It  was  here  that 
Clark  ferried  Sergeant  Pryor  and  his  remaining  pack 
animals  across  the  river,  preliminary  to  the  overland 
journey  that  was  to  be  attempted  with  the  animals 
to  the  Mandan  Villages.  Here,  also,  is  the  point  that 
is  popularly  credited  with  being  the  highwater  mark 
of  steamboat  navigation  on  the  Yellowstone.  On 
June  6, 1875,  Captain  Grant  Marsh  in  the  Josephine. 
conducting  a  rough  survey  of  the  river  under  the 
direction  of  General  J.  W.  Forsyth,  reached  a  point 
which  he  estimated  to  be  forty-six  miles  above  Pom- 
pey's  Pillar,  250  miles  above  Powder  River  and  4<83 
miles  above  the  mouth  of  the  Yellowstone.  Major 
Joseph  Mills  Hanson,  in  his  "Conquest  of  the  Mis- 
souri," stirringly  describes  the  climax  of  this  remark- 
able voyage. 

After  leaving  Pompey's  Pillar  "the  great  river, 
though   apparently  undiminished  in  volume,   grew 


206       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

more  and  more  swift,  constantly  breaking  into  rapids 
through  which  it  was  necessary  to  warp  and  spar  the 
boat,  while  numberless  small  islands  split  the  channel 
into  chutes,  no  one  of  which  was  large  enough  for 
easy  navigation.  At  times  it  seemed  that  a  smooth 
stretch  of  water  had  been  reached,  .  .  .  but  invaria- 
bly just  beyond  another  rapid  would  be  encountered. 
...  Before  nightfall  a  tremendous  rapid  was  en- 
countered, and  though,  after  a  hard  struggle,  it  was 
successfully  passed,  so  forbidding  was  its  aspect  and 
so  savage  the  resistance  it  offered,  that  it  was  appre- 
ciatively named  *Hell  Roaring  Rapids.'  At  the 
head  of  it  the  boat  lay  up  for  the  night,  with  a  line 
stretched  to  the  bank  ahead  to  help  her  forward  in  the 
morning.  But  when  dawn  came,  General  Forsyth, 
seeing  the  nature  of  the  river  in  front,  ordered  out  a 
reconnoitring  party  who  marched  up  the  bank  for 
several  miles  examining  the  channel.  On  their  re- 
turn they  reported  the  whole  river  ahead  so  broken 
up  by  islands  and  with  so  powerful  a  current  that  it 
could  not  be  navigated  without  constant  resort  to 
warping  and  sparring.  .  .  .  General  Forsyth  and 
Captain  Marsh  held  a  consultation  and  decided  that 
no  adequate  reward  for  the  labour  involved  could  be 
gained  by  going  further.  So,  at  two  o'clock  P.  m.  on 
June  7th,  the  boat  was  turned  about  and  started  on 
her  return.  ...     Before  leaving  this  highest  point 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  207 

attained,  Captain  Marsh  blazed  the  trunk  of  a  gigan- 
tic Cottonwood  to  which  the  Josephine  was  tied,  and 
carved  thereon  the  name  of  the  boat  and  the  date.  It 
is  exceedingly  improbable  that  a  steam  vessel  will 
ever  again  come  within  sight  of  that  spot  or  be  en- 
titled to  place  her  name  beneath  the  Josephine's  on 
that  ancient  tree  trunk,  almost  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains." 

The  Josephine's  farthest  west  on  the  Yellowstone 
stands  as  the  record  for  steamers  by  many  miles,  but 
what  wouldn't  I  have  given  to  have  found  that  big 
Cottonwood  and  tied  up  there  myself  I  No  t)ne  along 
the  river  could  tell  me  anything  about  it,  and  there 
is  little  doubt  that,  like  so  many  thousands  of  its 
less  distinguished  brethren,  it  has  been  swallowed  up 
by  the  spring  floods.  Neither  above  nor  below  the 
bridge  for  many  miles,  however,  could  I  locate  a  rif- 
fle sufficiently  savage  to  fit  Captain  Marsh's  descrip- 
tion of  "Hell  Roaring  Rapids."  It  has  occurred  to 
me  as  just  possible  that  such  a  rapid  was  wiped  out 
when  the  power  dam  was  built,  the  comparatively 
short  distance  the  water  is  backed  up  at  that  point 
suggesting  that  the  original  fall  was  very  consider- 
able. Again,  it  is  possible  that  to  Captain  Marsh, 
after  his  many  years  in  the  comparatively  smooth 
waters  of  the  Missouri,  such  riffles  as  still  go  slap- 
banging  down  along  the  bluffs  opposite  Billings  would 


208      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

appear  a  lot  rougher  than  they  would  to  one  just 
down  from  the  almost  continuously  white  and  rock- 
torn  rapids  of  the  upper  river. 

At  any  event  it  stirred  my  imagination  mightily  to 
locate  the  Josephine's  turning  point  even  approxi- 
mately. From  now  on  I  was  going  to  have  a  fellow 
pilot  for  Captain  Clark.  Captain  Grant  Marsh  was 
henceforth  at  my  call  at  any  point  I  needed  him  be- 
tween BiUings  and  St.  Louis.  The  stout  frame  of 
that  splendid  old  river  Viking  had  been  tucked  under 
the  sod  down  Bismarck-way  for  a  number  of  years, 
but  I  knew  his  spirit  still  took  its  wonted  tricks  at 
the  wheel.  Captain  William  Clark  and  Captain 
Grant  Marsh!  Could  you  beat  that  pair  if  it  came 
to  standing  watch-and-watch  down  the  Yellowstone 
and  Missouri?  And  there  were  others  waiting  just 
round  the  bend.  At  the  Big  Horn  I  could  sign  on 
Manual  Lisa  if  I  wanted  him;  or  John  Colter,  who 
discovered  the  Yellowstone  Park  while  flying  from 
the  Blackfeet.  But  Colter  was  not  truthful,  which 
disqualified  him  for  pilotage.  I  should  have  to  ship 
him  simply  as  a  congenial  spirit — one  of  my  own  kind. 

Returning  to  my  boat,  I  found  that  the  little 
daughters  of  the  pumping-station  man  had  roofed  it 
over  Hke  a  Venetian  gondola  and  moved  in  with  all 
their  worldly  goods.  They  confronted  me  with  the 
clean-cut  alternatives  of  coming  to  live  with  them 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  209 

right  there  or  taking  them  with  me  down  the  river. 
Fortunately  their  parents  intervened  on  my  side. 
With  the  aid  of  those  two  kindly  and  tactful  diplo- 
mats— and  a  lot  of  milk  chocolate  and  dried  apricots 
— I  finally  contrived  an  ejection.  The  operation  de- 
layed me  till  after  four  o'clock,  though,  so  there  was 
no  hope  of  making  Plompey's  Pillar  that  night. 

Though  I  knew  that  the  fall  of  the  river  would  be 
easing  off  very  rapidly  from  now  on,  there  was  little 
indication  of  it  in  the  twenty-five-mile  stretch  I  ran 
before  dark  that  evening.  Bouncing  back  and  forth 
between  broken  lines  of  red-yellow  bluffs,  there  were 
frequent  sharp  riffles  and  even  two  or  three  corners 
where  considerable  water  was  splashed  in.  For  only 
the  shortest  of  reaches  was  the  stream  sufficiently 
quiet  to  allow  me  to  take  my  eyes  off  it  long  enough 
to  enjoy  the  really  entrancing  diorama  of  the  scenery. 
I  was  especially  sorry  for  this,  for  on  my  right  was 
unfolding  the  verdant  loveliness  of  the  Crow  Reser- 
vation, the  very  heart  of  the  hunting  grounds  which 
the  Indians  had  loved  above  all  others  for  hundreds 
of  years — the  region  they  had  fought  hardest  to  save 
from  relinquishnient  to  the  relentless  white.  Read 
what,  according  to  Irving  in  the  "Adventures  of  Cap- 
tain Bonneville,"  an  Absaroka  said  about  this  Red 
Man's  Garden  of  Eden  a  hundred  years  ago: 

"The  Crow  country  is  a  good  country.     The  Great 


210       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 


1 


Spirit  has  put  it  in  exactly  the  right  place ;  while  you 
are  in  it  you  fare  well;  whenever  you  go  out  of  it, 
whichever  way  you  travel,  you  fare  worse."  After 
going  on  to  tell  of  the  unspeakable  climatic  conditions 
and  the  scarcity  of  game  prevaiHng  in  the  regions  to 
the  north,  south,  east  and  west,  this  progenitor  of 
the  modern  booster  goes  on:  "The  Crow  country  is 
in  exactly  the  right  place.  It  has  snowy  mountains 
and  sunny  plains ;  all  kinds  of  climate  and  good  things 
for  every  season.  When  summer  heats  scorch  the 
prairies,  you  can  draw  up  under  the  mountains  where 
the  air  is  sweet  and  cool,  the  grass  fresh,  and  the 
bright  streams  come  tumbling  out  of  the  snowy-banks. 
There  you  can  hunt  the  elk,  the  deer  and  the  antelope, 
when  their  skins  are  fit  for  dressing;  there  you  will 
find  plenty  of  white  bears  and  the  mountain  sheep. 

"In  the  autumn,  when  your  horses  are  fat  and 
strong  from  the  mountain  pastures,  you  can  go  down 
to  the  plains  and  hunt  buffalo,  or  trap  beaver  on  the 
streams.  And  when  winter  comes,  you  can  take  shel- 
ter in  the  woody  bottoms  along  the  rivers ;  there  you 
will  find  buffalo  meat  for  yourselves  and  cottonwood 
bark  for  your  horses ;  or  you  may  winter  in  the  Wind 
River  valley,  where  there  is  salt  weed  in  abundance. 

"The  Crow  country  is  exactly  in  the  right  place. 
Everything  good  is  to  be  found  there.  There  is  no 
country  like  the  Crow  country." 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  211 

Like  the  scent  of  fern  leaves  wafted  out  of  the 
dear,  dead  past,  those  lines  awakened  in  my  heart 
memories  of  something  that  had  long  gone  out  of  my 
life. 

"Something  is,  or  something  seems, 
Which  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams. 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  .  *  . 
Of  something  seen,  I  know  not  where, 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 

I  muttered  that  in  fragments,  but  the  lines  only 
adumbrated  the  longing  without  revealing  its  hidden 
fount.  Still  groping  mentally,  I  unwrapped  some 
forks  and  spoons  done  up  in  a  page  of  the  Los  An- 
geles Times,  Ah,  that  gave  me  the  cue!  Los  An- 
geles Chamber  of  Commerce  tourist  literature.  And 
to  think  a  Crow  Indian  started  that  kind  of  a  thing  I 

Running  until  the  river  bottoms  were  swamped  in 
purple  shadows,  I  landed  and  made  camp  in  a  soft 
little  nest  of  snowy  sand  left  behind  by  a  high-water 
eddy.  There  was  an  abrupt  yellow  cliff  rising 
straight  out  of  a  woolly-white  riffle  on  the  right  bank, 
and  beyond  a  grove  of  cottonwood  to  the  left  were 
the  shadowy  buildings  of  some  kind  of  a  ranch.  Even 
in  the  deepening  twilight  I  could  read  something  of 
the  record  of  its  growth — groups  of  log  cabins,  groups 
of  unpainted,  rough-sawed  lumber  and  finally  a  huge 
red  barn  and  a  great  square,  verandahed  house  that 


212       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

was  all  but  a  mansion.  I  was  wondering  if  the  same 
pioneering  frontiersman  who  had  built  the  cabins  had 
survived  to  occupy  the  big  green  and  white  house, 
when  the  soft  southerly  wind  brought  the  scent  of 
sweet  clover  and  the  strains  of  a  phonograph. 
'"Evening  Star/'  the  Jocelyn  Lullaby,  the  Baccarole, 
wafted  me  their  * 'convoluted  runes"  one  after  the 
other;  then  a  piano  began  to  strum  and  a  girl,  neither 
mean  of  voice  nor  temperament,  sang  Tosti's  "Good- 
Bye"  It  always  had  had  a  softly  sentimentalizing 
effect  on  me,  that  "Lines  of  white  on  a  sullen  Sea" 
sung  (as  it  always  is)  the  night  before  the  steamer 
reaches  port.  And  here  it  was  getting  me  in  the 
same  old  place — that  mushy  spot  under  the  solar 
plexus  that  non-anatomically  trained  poets  confuse 
with  the  heart.  I  simply  had  to  hike  over  and  tell 
that  impassioned  songstress  how  perfectly  her  song 
matched  the  scent  of  sweet  clover.  Cleaning  up  the 
last  of  the  dried  apricot  stew  in  my  army  mess  tin, 
I  pushed  southward  across  the  moonlit  bar.  No 
luck.     I  was  on  an  island.  , 

I  tried  out  my  new  bed  for  the  first  time  that  night. 
It  turned  out  to  be  a  combination  of  a  canvas  bag 
and  inflatable  rubber  mattress,  called  by  its  makers  a 
"Sleeping  Pocket."  Here  again  it  transpired  I  had 
played  in  luck  in  the  matter  of  a  pig  bought  in  a 
poke.     I  used  that  precious  little  ten-pound  packet  of 


©  L.  A.  Huffman 


©  L.  A.  Huffman 


pompey's  pillar  (Above) 

THE  YELLOWSTONE  FROM   THE   TOP   OF   POMPEy's  PILLAR    (Below) 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  213 

rubber  and  canvas  all  the  way  to  New  Orleans  with- 
out blankets.  On  wind-blown  sand  bars,  mud-banks, 
coal  barges  or  the  greasy  steel  decks  of  engine-rooms 
it  was  ever  the  same — always  dry,  always  soft,  al- 
ways warm.  Comfortable  sleeping  measures  just 
about  the  whole  difference  between  the  success  and 
failure  of  many  a  trip.  I  shudder  to  think  of  the 
messy  nights  I  must  inevitably  have  suffered  had  all 
those  lurking  thunder-storms  that  I  weathered  so 
snugly  caught  me  in  blankets. 

I  overslept  the  next  morning  and  so  did  not  carry 
out  my  over-night  resolution  of  pulling  across  to  the 
ranch  and  thanking  the  "Good-Bye"  girl.  Or 
rather,  I  did  start  and  then  changed  my  mind.  She 
was  on  the  upper  verandah  recuperating  from  a  sham- 
poo. Scarlet  kimono  and  bobbed  hair!  No,  not  with 
a  river  to  escape  by.  Stifling  my  au  revoir  impulse  I 
decided  to  leave  well  enough  alone  by  taking  that 
"Good-bye"  literally.  Abandoning  the  boat  to  the 
will  of  the  current  I  departed  via  the  lines  of  white 
under  the  sullen  cliff. 

At  the  end  of  a  couple  of  hours'  run  in  a  slack- 
ening current  I  landed  in  an  eddy  above  Pompey's 
Pillar,  quite  the  most  outstanding  landmark  on  the 
Yellowstone.  Clark  describes  how  he  halted  "to  ex- 
amine a  very  remarkable  rock  situated  in  an  exten- 
sive bottom  on  the  right,  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 


214       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

paces  from  the  shore.  It  is  nearly  four  hundred 
paces  in  circumference,  two  hundred  feet  high  and 
accessible  from  the  northeast,  the  other  sides  being 
a  perpendicular  chff  of  a  light-coloured,  gritty  rock. 
.  .  .  The  Indians  have  carved  the  figures  of  animals 
and  other  objects  on  the  sides  of  the  rock,  and  on  the 
top  are  raised  two  piles  of  stones."  Captain  Clark, 
after  writing  down  a  careful  description  of  the  coun- 
try on  all  sides,  marked  his  name  and  the  date  on 
the  rock  and  went  on  his  way. 

This  was  the  first  point  at  which  I  had  opportun- 
ity to  make  accurate  comparison  of  the  respective 
stages  of  water  encountered  by  Clark  and  myself. 
I  found  the  base  of  the  rock  less  than  a  hundred 
paces  from  the  river,  which  indicated — as  the  chan- 
nel seems  to  have  been  well  fixed  here — that  I  was 
enjoying  three  or  four  feet  more  water  than  did  my 
illustrious  predecessor.  This  would  seem  to  be  just 
about  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  I  was  voyag- 
ing three  weeks  earlier  in  the  season  than  he — that 
much  nearer  the  high  water  of  early  June,  at  which 
time  it  was  apparent  that  the  river  backed  up  right 
to  the  chff. 

Add  the  telegraph  poles  of  a  distant  railway  line 
and  a  picnic  booth  littered  with  papers  and  water- 
melon rinds,  and  Clark's  description  of  what  was 
unrolled  to  him  from  the  top  of  Pompey's  Pillar 


1 

ed   ■ 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  215 

would  stand  today.  I  located  the  place  where  his 
name  had  been  carved  by  a  grating  which  the  North- 
ern Pacific  engineers  had  erected  to  protect  it  from 
vandals,  but  the  most  careful  scrutiny  failed  to  reveal 
any  trace  of  the  letters  themselves.  The  practical 
obliteration  of  what  is  probably  the  only  authentic 
physical  mark  of  their  passing  that  either  Lewis  or 
Clark  left  between  St.  Louis  and  the  mouth  of  the 
Columbia  is  hardly  compensated  for  by  the  presence 
of  several  hundred  somewhat  later  and  rather  less 
important  signatures  at  this  point.  Several  of  these 
latter  bore  the  date  of  the  previous  day — July  4th, 
1921, — and  so  represented  a  bold  bid  for  fame  on 
the  part  of  some  of  the  watermelon  guzzling  pic- 
nickers. One  of  these  had  even  pried  a  bar  aside 
in  an  not  entirely  successful  endeavour  to  emblazon 
his  name  in  the  protected  area.  It  was  all  rather 
annoying.  These  new  names  are  piling  up  very  fast 
with  the  coming  of  the  flivver,  but  it  is  going  to  take 
a  lot  of  them  to  make  up  for  the  one  fhey  have  blotted 
out. 

Clark's  apparent  mental  processes  in  the  christen- 
ing of  Pompey's  Pillar  are  rather  amusing.  Neither 
a  profound  historian  nor  a  classicist,  the  Captain  still 
had  a  sort  of  vague  idea  in  his  head  that  there  was 
some  kind  of  a  rocky  erection  out  Nile-way  named 
after  Pompey.     That  being  so,  what  could  be  more 


216       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

fitting — since  the  names  of  all  of  the  members  of  his 
own  party  had  been  used  a  half  dozen  times  over 
first  and  last — than  that  this  rocky  eminence  by  the 
Yellowstone  should  be  called  after  Pompey.  That 
he  was  not  clear  in  his  mind  as  to  the  character  of 
the  historic  original  at  Alexandria  is  evidenced  by 
the  fact  that  he  first  called  the  Yellowstone  proto- 
type "Pompy's  Tower."  Whether  he  or  his  pub- 
lisher was  responsible  for  the  subsequent  change  to 
"Pillar"  is  not  clear.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  latter 
is  only  a  detached  fragment  of  "the  high  romantic 
clifts"  that  Clark  observed  jutting  over  the  water 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  It  bears  about  as 
much  actual  resemblance  to  the  real  Pompey's  Pillar 
as  the  Enchanted  Mesa  does  to  Cleopatra's  Needle. 
The  river  was  broader  and  slower  below  Pompey's 
Pillar,  with  the  rapids  shorter  and  farther  between. 
At  five  I  landed  at  a  very  pretty  alfalfa  ranch  on 
the  left  bank  to  inquire  about  passing  what  appeared 
to  be  a  submerged  dam  some  hundreds  of  yards 
ahead.  Only  two  women  were  at  home — a  beaming 
old  lady  and  her  very  stout  daughter.  They  insisted 
on  my  staying  to  tea,  which  required  no  great  per- 
suasiveness on  their  part  after  Joanna  remarked  that 
she  was  out  of  breath  from  turning  the  ice-cream 
freezer.  The  girl  was  astonishingly  red,  round  and 
sweet — a  veritable  bifurcated  apple.     She  seemed  to 


&: 


K   "Z    >" 


^   ^   6 


iT    b«    * 

q  ^  o 


m   ^ 


/ 


^  o  H 

g  -  § 

s  ^  i^ 

H  ^  ^ 

*^  H  5 

f«  E  ^ 

^  S  y 

K 
Eh 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  217 

have  a  very  good  knowledge  of  the  river,  and  assured 
me  I  should  have  no  trouble  at  the  diversion  dam  pro- 
vided I  kept  well  toward  the  left  bank.  Indeed,  if 
I  thought  it  would  help  at  all,  she  would  ride  down 
with  me  and  show  the  way.  There  was  a  path  back 
home  from  their  lower  pasture. 

Considering  how  shy  I  had  found  most  of  the 
rancher  folk  to  be  of  the  river,  this  game  offer  pretty 
nearly  took  my  breath  away.  I  would  have  been  all 
for  accepting  it  save  for  one  very  good  and  sufficient 
reason — it  was  physically  impossible.  I  had  noticed 
that  Joanna's  personal  chair  was  of  home  construc- 
tion, and  considerable  amplitude  of  beam — certainly 
six  inches  more  than  the  stern-sheets  of  my  slender 
shallop.  She  could  wedge  in  sidewise,  of  course,  but 
that  still  left  the  matter  of  a  life-preserver.  I  didn't 
feel  it  was  quite  the  thing  to  take  an  only  child  into 
a  rapid  without  some  provision  for  floating  her  out 
in  case  of  an  upset.  And  my  Gieve  wouldn't  do. 
The  inflated  "doughnut"  that  shpped  so  easily  up 
and  down  my  own  brawny  brisket  would  just  about 
have  served  Joanna  as  an  armlet.  So  I  declined  with 
what  grace  I  could,  and  we  all  parted  on  the  best  of 
terms — I  with  a  fragrant  flitch  of  their  home-cured 
bacon,  they  with  three  double  handfuls  of  my  Cali- 
fornia home-dried  apricots. 

I  had  no  trouble  at  the  dam,  which  was  only  on 


218       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

the  right  side,  where  it  had  been  erected  to  divert 
the  water  into  the  head  of  an  irrigation  ditch.  Run- 
ning until  nearly  dark,  I  landed  and  made  camp  on 
a  breeze-swept  bar  away  from  the  mosquitos. 

I  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Big  Horn  in  mid-fore- 
noon of  the  following  day.  I  should  have  liked  to 
land  but  was  fearful  I  would  get  out  of  hand  and 
take  too  much  time  once  I  turned  myself  loose  at 
the  one  point  above  all  others  where  the  most  Yel- 
lowstone history  has  been  made.  The  Big  Horn  was 
known  in  a  vague  way  through  the  Indian  accounts 
of  it  even  before  the  tim^  of  Lewis  and  Clark,  but 
the  first  permanent  establishment  upon  it  was  the 
trading  post  which  Manuel  Lisa  erected  there  in 
1807.  It  was  to  this  point  that  John  Colter  fled 
after  being  chased  by  the  Blackfeet  across  Yellow- 
stone Park,  and  it  was  his  point  of  departure  in  a 
canoe  on  a  voyage  to  St.  Louis  which  he  claimed  to 
have  made  in  thirty  days.  Colter's  account  of  how 
he  ran  down  several  black-tail  deer  and  bighorn  be- 
fore relaxing  the  tremendous  burst  of  speed  he  had 
put  on  to  distance  the  Redskins  never  bothered  me 
much,  but  that  average  of  close  to  a  hundred  miles 
a  day — ^most  of  it  down  the  languid  Missouri — some- 
how won't  stick.  I  found  I  couldn't  keep  it  up  even 
after  I  put  on  my  engine.  Colter  undoubtedly  ex- 
aggerated about  his  time  on  this  trip,  and  that  being 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  219 

true,  doubtless,  also,  about  trampling  underfoot  the 
deer  and  bighorn.  Colter  was  a  liar  but  not  an  ar- 
tistic one.  Now  if  old  Jim  Bridger  had  been  telling 
that  canoe-voyage  yarn  he  would  doubtless  have  hung 
a  bag  of  alum  over  the  bow  and  shrunk  the  distance 
as  a  starter,  and  then  probably  used  a  trained  catfish 
for  auxiliary  power.  That's  the  kind  of  liar  that 
makes  the  world  safe  for  democracy. 

Post  after  post  was  founded  at  the  confluence  of 
the  Yellowstone  and  Big  Horn  until,  in  the  'seven- 
tieSp  it  became  the  centre  of  operations  for  the  Army 
in  the  greatest  of  our  Indian  wars.  In  comparison 
with  the  broad,  rolling  tide  of  the  Yellowstone  the 
turbid  current  of  the  tributary  appeared  shallow  and 
of  no  great  volume — the  last  place  in  the  world  for 
a  river  steamer  to  venture  with  any  hope  of  going 
its  own  length  without  grounding.  And  yet,  I  re- 
flected, the  Big  Horn  could  have  been  scarcely  higher 
on  that  sultry  Sunday  of  June  25th,  1876,  when  Cap- 
tain Grant  Marsh,  acting  on  orders  from  General 
Terry,  sparred  and  warped  and  crabbed  the  wonder- 
ful old  Far  West  up  twenty-five  miles  of  those  rock- 
choked,  foam-white  rapids.  The  skies  to  the  south 
were  black  with  rolling  smoke  clouds,  but  with  nothing 
to  indicate  that  under  their  shadows  five  companies 
of  the  7th  Cavalry  were  paying  with  their  lives  for 
the  precipitancy  of  their  brave  but  hot-headed  com- 


^ 


220      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

mander.  The  next  day  the  Far  West  reached, 
passed  and  returned  to  the  mouth  of  the  Little  Big 
Horn,  and  it  was  there  that  a  half-crazed  Crow  scout, 
all  but  speechless  with  terror,  brought  on  the  first 
lap  of  its  way  to  the  outer  world  the  story  of  the 
Custer  Massacre. 

On  the  morning  of  June  30th,  with  Major  Reno's 
wounded  aboard,  the  Far  West  cast  off  for  the  start 
of  her  epic  run  to  Fort  Lincoln.  Major  Joseph 
Hanson  records  that  that  Captain  Marsh  all  but  col- 
lapsed in  the  pilot-house  as  the  terrible  responsibility 
of  that  fifty-three-mile  run  down  the  rock-paved 
channel  of  the  Big  Horn  suddenly  assailed  him  on 
stepping  to  the  wheel.  General  Terry  had  just  said 
to  him:  "Captain,  you  have  on  board  the  most  pre- 
cious cargo  a  boat  ever  carried.  Every  soldier  here 
who  is  suffering  with  wounds  is  the  victim  of  a  ter- 
rible blunder;  a  sad  and  terrible  blunder."  Crab- 
bing up  stream  with  supplies  was  one  thing,  flounder- 
ing down  with  a  shattered  human  cargo  of  that  kind, 
quite  another.  Captain  Marsh  declared  the  moment 
the  most  sickening  of  his  life.  Then  he  pulled  him- 
self together  and  drove  her  through.  I  tried  to  im- 
agine the  relief  her  skipper  must  have  felt  as  he 
rounded  that  last  bend  above  where  I  now  saw  a  rail- 
way bridge  and  headed  the  Far  West  into  the  deep, 
clear  channel  of  the  Yellowstone,  but  couldn't  come 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  221 

near  to  compassing  it.  A  man  has  to  have  carried 
a  load  of  that  kind  to  know  what  it  means  to  put  it 
down.  The  Far  West  broke  all  upper  river  records 
for  speed  in  her  run  to  Fort  Lincoln,  below  Bismarck, 
the  nearest  hospital.  Captain  Marsh's  splendid 
achievement  in  saving  Reno's  wounded  by  his  mas- 
terly navigation  is  the  one  bright  bit  of  silver  lining 
on  the  sodden  black  cloud  of  the  Massacre  of  the 
Little  Big  Horn. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Rosebud  I  passed  another  im- 
portant rendezvous  of  the  Sioux  campaign.  From 
here,  after  taking  his  final  orders  from  General  Terry, 
Custer  had  departed  on  the  m^rch  that  was  to  finish 
upon  the  Little  Big  Horn.  Major  Hanson  relates 
an  incident  that  occurred  here  an  hour  or  two  after  the 
ill-fated  command  had  disappeared  up  the  valley,  and 
which  was  particularly  interesting  to  me  at  the  mo- 
ment as  it  involved  the  upset  of  a  skiff  in  a  riffle  I 
was  about  to  run.  All  of  the  letters  written  by  Cus- 
ter's men  since  leaving  Fort  Lincoln  were  put  in  a 
bag  and  started  by  boat  for  Fort  Buford.  "Ser- 
geant Fox  and  two  privates  of  the  escort  were  de- 
tailed to  carry  the  precious  cargo  down,"  wrote  Major 
Hanson.  "Amid  a  chorus  of  hearty  cheers  from  the 
people  on  the  steamer,  they  started  out.  But  they 
were  totally  unfamiliar  with  the  handling  of  a  small 
boat  in  the  swirling  current  of  the  Yellowstone.     Be- 


222       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

fore  they  had  gone  fifty  feet  their  skiff  overturned. 
There,  in  full  view  of  all  their  comrades,  who  could 
not  reach  them  in  time  to  save,  all  three  of  the  unfor- 
tunate fellows  sank  froml  sight,  while  the  mail  sack 
went  to  the  bottom  of  the  river." 

The  soldiers  were  drowned,  but  persistent  dragging 
of  the  river  under  the  direction  of  Captain  Marsh 
finally  brought  up  the  mail  sack,  thus  saving  for  their 
relatives  and  friends  the  last  letters  of  the  men  who 
were  to  fall  before  the  Sioux  a  few  days  later.  These 
included  Custer's  note  to  his  wife  as  well  as  young 
Boston  Custer's  letter  to  his  mother.  Sending  three 
inexperienced  soldiers  to  boat  down  the  Yellowstone 
with  so  humanly  precious  a  freight  in  their  care  can- 
not but  strike  one  as  about  on  all  fours  with  other 
blunders  that  led  up  to  the  tragic  climax  of  that  dis- 
astrous campaign. 

I  found  a  shallow  bar  clawed  with  sprawling  chan- 
nels but  no  riffles  to  speak  of  below  the  Rosebud. 
There  could  hardly  have  been  bad  water  there  at  any 
time. 

Landing  at  a  grassy  point  to  make  camp  about 
seven-thirty  I  found  the  mosquitos  so  thick  that  I 
beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the  boat  and  pushed  off  again 
in  search  of  a  gravel  bar  in  midstream.  The  sight 
of  new  and  comfortable  ranch  buildings  lured  mfe  to 
land  a  half  mile  below,  however,  where  an  invitation 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  223 

to  spend  the  night  in  the  screened  bunk-house  was 
promptly  forthcoming.  The  ranch  turned  out  to  be 
a  part  of  an  extensive  irrigation  enterprise,  promoted 
and  managed  by  a  chap  named  Cummings  from 
Minneapolis,  who  chanced  to  be  on  the  place  at  the 
time.  Except  for  the  general  farming  depression, 
prospects  were  good,  he  said — better  than  in  the  dry 
farming  sections,  where  crops,  already  very  short, 
were  being  still  further  shortened  by  grasshoppers. 
He  was  rather  more  optimistic  than  the  run  of  Mon- 
tanan  pastoralists  and  agriculturalists  I  had  met,  all 
of  whom  had  been  having  terribly  hard  sledding. 

A  leisurely  three-hour's  run  in  the  morning  brought 
me  to  Fort  Keogh  and  Miles  City,  respectively  above 
and  below  the  Tongue.  The  red-brown  current  of 
the  latter  tinged  the  Yellowstone  for  a  mile  below 
their  confluence.  Clark  camped  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Tongue,  and  his  painstaking  description  of  the  sec- 
ond in  size  of  the  Yellowstone's  tributaries  might  have 
been  written  today. 

"It  has  a  very  wide  bed.  .  .  .  The  water  is  of 
a  light-brown  colour  and  nearly  milk- warm;  it  is 
shallow  and  its  rapid  current  throws  out  great  quan- 
tities of  mud  and  some  coarse  gravel.  .  .  .  The 
warmth  of  the  water  would  seem  to  indicate  that  the 
country  through  which  it  passes  is  open  and  without 
shade." 


224      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Captain  Clark  was  a  splendid  geographer,  even  if 
he  did  run  amuck  a  bit  with  his  historical  nomencla- 
ture. 

The  annual  Round-up  had  come  to  an  end  the 
previous  day,  so  that  I  found  Miles  City,  if  not  quite 
a  banquet  hall  deserted,  at  least  in  something  of  a  fll 
morning-after  frame  of  mind.  It  rather  warmed 
one's  heart  to  see  so  many  people  rubbing  throbbing 
temples,  and  I  seemed  to  see  in  it  some  explanation 
of  what  a  cowboy  meant  when  he  told  me  that  the 
only  critter  at  the  Round-up  that  he  couldn't  ride 
was  the  "White  Mule." 

All  the  cities  of  the  Yellowstone  have  character 
and  individuality,  and  none  more  than  Miles  City. 
Not  so  beautifully  located  as  Livingston,  not  quite 
so  metropolitan  as  Billings,  there  is  something  in  the 
fine,  broad  streets  of  Miles  that  suggests  the  frank, 
bluff,  open-heartedness  of  a  cowboy  straight  from 
the  ranges.  The  town  looks  you  squarely  between 
the  eyes  and  says  "Put  it  there"!  in  a  deep,  mellow 
voice  that  goes  straight  to  the  heart.  That  voice  and 
that  look  embody  the  quintessence  of  reassurance. 
You  know  in  an  instant  that  you  are  face  to  face  with 
the  kind  of  a  town  that  couldn't  play  a  mean  trick 
on  a  man  if  it  tried — ^that  there  isn't  going  to  be  any 
need  of  slinking  around  with  one  hand  on  your  wal- 
let and  the  other  on  your  hip-pocket.     Even  though 


By  Haynes,  St.  Paul 


STOCKYARDS,   MILES    CITY    (Above) 

"freightin'  "  (Below) 


©  L.  A.  Huffman 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  225 

you  may  have  been  warned  that  various  sorts  of  rough 
stufP  have  been  pulled  in  Miles,  you  are  certain  that 
outsiders  will  have  been  found  at  the  bottom!  of  it 
if  all  the  facts  were  known.  (My  over-night  stop  in 
Miles  was  hardly  sufficient  to  prove  out  the  truth  of 
all  this.  Just  the  same,  that's  the  way  I  felt  about 
the  town,  and  that's  the  way  I  still  feel.) 

Miles  City  owed  its  early  importance  to  sheep  and 
cattle,  and  still  has  the  distinction  of  being  the  prin- 
ciple horse  market  of  America.  Agriculture  has 
played  an  increasingly  important  part  in  its  later 
growth.  The  splendid  valleys  of  the  Powder  and 
the  Tongue  are  both  tributary  territory,  while  the 
irrigation  of  the  rich  lands  of  the  Yellowstone  is 
bringing  year  by  year  an  augmented  flow  of  wealth 
to  the  city's  gates.  (Darn  it!  I  wonder  if  I  have 
cribbed  that  last  sentence  from  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce literature.  In  any  event,  it  is  quite  true  in 
this  case.) 

Besides  its  extensive  cattle  and  sheep  ranges,  the 
Miles  City  region  distinguishes  itself  by  having  the 
greatest  range  of  temperature  of  any  place  in  the 
world.  The  Government  Weather  Bureau  is  au- 
thority for  the  fact  that  a  winter  temperature  of 
sixty-five  degrees  below  Zero  has  been  balanced  by 
a  summer  one  of  one  hundred  and  fifteen  above. 
Neither  California  nor  the  Riviera  can  give  the  tour- 


226       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ist  anything  like  that  variety  to  choose  from.  From 
Esquimo  to  Hottentot,  what  race  couldn't  establish 
itself  right  there  by  the  Yellowstone  under  almost 
normal  home  weather  conditions?  Of  course,  if  they 
were  going  to  establish  themselves  for  long  some  kind 
of  a  meteorological  Joshua  would  be  needed  to 
command  the  thermometer  to  stand  still;  also  some 
one  to  see  that  the  command  was  carried  out.  And 
there  would  lie  the  way  to  complications  and  friction, 
for  one  can  hardly  imagine  a  Hottentot  Joshua 
quite  in  agreement  with  an  Esquimo  Joshua  as  to 
just  what  point  the  thermometer  should  be  com- 
manded to  stand  at.  That  might  be  solved  by  the 
establishment  of  thermostat  villages,  but  then  would 
arise  the  endless  train  of  legal  complications  inevi- 
tably following  in  the  wake  of  infringing  on  the  ripar- 
ian rights  (whatever  they  are)  of  the  irrigation  peo- 
ple. No,  probably  Miles  had  best  be  left  to  its  pres- 
ent inhabitants,  who  appear  to  have  waxed  both  ami- 
able and  prosperous  by  browsing  on  their  tempera- 
ture ranges  just  as  Nature  provided  them. 

I  made  special  inquiry  about  Buffalo  Rapids  while 
in  Miles  City.  This  was  for  two  reasons.  Reading 
that  Clark  had  been  compelled  to  let  down  his  boats 
over  an  abrupt  fall  of  several  feet  at  that  point,  I 
thought  it  just  as  well  not  to  go  blundering  into  it 
myself  without  further  information.     I  also  heard 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  227 

that  there  was  a  project  for  developing  extensive 
power  at  this  series  of  riffles.  I  spent  a  pleasant  and 
profitable  afternoon  with  Mr.  Doane,  the  engineer 
of  the  project.  He  said  that  I  ought  to  have  little 
trouble  in  running  right  through  all  of  the  rapids, 
but  suggested  it  might  be  well  to  land  at  a  farm- 
house near  the  head  and  see  for  myself.  He  also 
gave  me  a  few  facts  about  the  power  project.  I 
would  have  to  refer  to  my  notes  (which  I  never  do 
if  at  all  avoidable)  to  recall  the  hydro-electric  data; 
but  I  need  no  such  adventitious  aid  to  remember  Mrs. 
Doane's  freshly  distilled  "Essence  of  Dandelion." 
Literal  liquid  golden  sunshine  it  was,  with  a  bouquet 
recalling  to  me  that  of  an  ambrosial  decoction  made 
by  the  monks  of  Mount  Athos  from  buds  of  asphodel, 
and  which  a  masked  hermit  lets  down  to  you  on  a 
string  from  the  tower  in  which  he  is  supposed  to  be 
walled  up  with  the  makings  and  his  retorts.  Buffalo 
Rapids  never  troubled  me  again. 

I  pushed  off  about  eleven  in  the  forenoon  of  July 
8th,  and  an  hour's  run  in  moderately  fast  water  took 
me  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  white  caps  of  the 
first  pitch  of  Buffalo  Rapids.  Clark  had  originally 
named  these  riffles  "Buff aloe  Shoal,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  one  of  these  animals  being  found  in  them." 
He  describes  it  further  as  a  "succession  of  bad  shoals, 
interspersed  with  hard,  brown,  gritty  rock,  extend- 


228      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ing  for  six  miles ;  the  last  shoal  stretches  nearly  across 
the  river,  and  has  a  descent  of  about  three  feet.  At 
this  place  we  were  obliged  to  let  the  canoes  down  by 
hand,  for  fear  of  their  splitting  on  a  concealed  rock; 
though  when  the  shoals  are  known  a  large  canoe  could 
pass  with  safety  through  the  worst  of  them.  This 
is  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  whole  Yellowstone 
River.  .  .  ." 

Captain  Clark  would  hardly  have  registered  the 
latter  verdict  had  he  run  the  Yellowstone  all  the  way 
from  the  Big  Bend,  where  he  first  came  upon  it.  In- 
deed, it  seems  to  me  that  he  must  have  run  rapids 
above  Billings  that  were  quite  as  menacing  as  the 
one  which  now  put  his  party  to  so  much  trouble  to 
avoid.  I  would  not  be  too  dogmatic  on  that  point, 
however.  A  hundred  years  of  time  bring  great 
changes  even  to  bedrock  riffles,  and  these  latter  them- 
selves also  vary  greatly  according  to  the  stage  of 
water.  I  was  assured  that  from  August  on  there  is 
still  a  nearly  abrupt  drop  of  several  feet  at  one  point 
in  Buffalo  Rapids. 

Although  I  was  sure  I  could  see  my  way  past  the 
first  riffle  without  serious  difficulty,  I  still  thought  it 
best  to  learn  what  I  could  at  the  farmhouse  Doane 
had  indicated.  This  proved  to  be  a  comfortable  old 
log  structure  at  a  point  where  the  right  bank  was 
being  rapidly  torn  down  by  the  swift  current.     A 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  229 

very  deaf  chap  at  the  first  door  I  approached  strongly 
urged  that  I  line  all  the  way  down,  saying  that  there 
was  at  least  one  point  where  my  boat  could  not  pos- 
sibly live.  As  that  wasn't  quite  what  I  wanted  to 
hear,  I  went  round  the  house  and  tried  another  door. 
Here,  in  a  big,  fragrant  kitchen,  I  found  a  family 
at  lunch,  but  with  one  nice,  juicy  helping  of  cream- 
splashed  tapioca  pudding  still  unconsumed.  I  helped 
them  out  with  that,  and  in  return  asked  for  informa- 
tion about  the  rapids.  None  of  them  was  river- 
broke,  but  they  said  they  had  seen  a  rowboat  run 
down  the  left  side  of  the  first  riffle  the  previous  sum- 
mer and  that  they  afterwards  heard  it  was  not  upset 
until  it  got  to  Wolf  Rapids,  down  Terry-way.  That 
was  more  encouraging,  at  least  as  far  as  Buffalo 
Rapids  were  concerned,  and  I  decided  to  push  off* 
and  let  Nature  take  its  course.  All  of  them,  includ- 
ing the  careful  deaf  brother,  came  down  to  speed  me 
on.  Rather  anxious  for  a  bit  more  weight  aft  to 
bring  the  head  higher,  I  asked  if  any  of  them  cared  to 
run  through  with  me  to  the  railway  bridge  below  the 
bend.  All  of  them  shook  their  heads  save  a  flower- 
like slip  of  a  girl  of  fourteen  or  thereabouts.  She 
would  have  been  game,  I  think — had  the  proper  en- 
couragement from  her  mother  been  forthcoming. 
What  a  handicap  a  solicitous  mother  is  to  a  flower- 
like child!     This  mother  was  rather  an  old  dear, 


230       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

too.     All  I  really  held  against  her  at  the  last  was 
the  score  of  letting  her  emergency  reserve  of  tapioca 
and  cream  sink  so  low. 

The  way  past  the  worst  of  the  first  riffle  looked  so 
clear  on  the  right  that  I  did  not  trouble  to  pull 
across  to  the  other  side.  I  ran  through  in  easy,  un- 
dulant  water,  without  being  forced  uncomfortably 
close  to  some  patches  of  rather  savage  looking  white 
where  the  teeth  of  the  bedrock  were  flecked  with  toss- 
ing foam.  Rounding  a  wide  bend,  I  found  myself 
drifting  down  onto  the  main  run  of  riffles,  the  passing 
of  one  of  which  caused  Clark's  party  some  trouble. 
These  filled  the  channel  much  more  completely  than 
did  those  above,  and  it  hardly  looked  possible  to  avoid 
bad  water  all  of  the  way  through.  Even  so,  there 
was  nothing  that  looked  wicked  enough  to  be  worth 
landing  to  avoid. 

Pulling  hard  to  the  right,  I  gave  good  berth  to  a 
line  of  badly  messed  up  combers  with  not  enough 
foam  on  them  to  cover  all  of  the  black-rock  ledge  be- 
neath. Then,  feeling  more  or  less  on  easy  street,  I  let 
the  skiflf  slowly  draw  in  toward  the  middle  of  a  long, 
straight  line  of  smoothly-running  rollers  that  ex- 
tended to  and  under  the  long  railway  bridge.  I 
could  have  kept  clear  of  the  worst  of  this  water  by 
hard  work,  but  with  the  beautifully  rounded  waves 
signalling  "All  clear"!  as  far  as  snags  and  reallj^ 


on  SI 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  231 

hostile  rocks  were  concerned  it  seemed  too  bad  to  miss 
the  fun.  Wallowing  somewhat  wildly  now  and  then 
and  shipping  a  good  bit  of  water  in  her  dives,  my 
little  tin  shallop  went  through  like  a  duck.  I  knew 
I  was  getting  down  toward  the  end  of  that  kind  of 
thrills  and  it  was  well  to  make  hay  while  the  sun 
shone. 

Before  I  was  out  of  the  rapid  a  long  overland 
rolled  out  upon  and  over  the  bridge  below.  The  en- 
gine gave  me  a  friendly  toot  and  waving  hands  down 
the  winding  line  of  coaches  gave  the  train  the  look 
of  a  giant  centipede  trying  to  pirouette  with  all  of  its 
port-side  legs.  Warned  by  what  had  happened  to 
me  under  similar  circumstances  in  the  riffle  under 
Rapids  Station,  I  kept  my  eye  right  on  the  ball  to 
the  end  of  the  swing.  A  few  days  later,  in  the  hotel 
at  Glen  dive,  a  notions  drummer  told  me  he  had  been 
on  the  observation  platform  on  the  occasion  in  ques- 
tion, adding  jocularly  that  every  one  there  had  been 
wishing  I  would  pull  a  spill  for  them.  "Cose  why?" 
I  asked  him  just  a  bit  bluntly;  "those  rapids  have 
been  known  to  drown  a  buffalo." 

Perhaps  I  should  not  have  been  quite  so  abrupt,  for 
that  was  what  cramped  the  delightfully  drummer- 
esque  ingenuousness  with  which  he  had  begun.  Mut- 
tering something  about  "breaking  the  monotony  of  a 
run  through  the  Bad  Lands,"  the  good  chap  backed 


232       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

off  and  out  of  my  life.  I  was  sorry  for  that,  sorry 
to  have  embarrassed  him,  and  especially  sorry  I 
didn't  have  the  savoir  faire  to  make  it  easy  for  him 
to  finish  as  frankly  as  he  opened  up.  I  didn't  blame 
him  and  his  friends  for  wishing  for  that  spill.  I 
know  perfectly  well  I  would  have  hoped  for  it  my- 
self had  our  positions  been  reversed.  Almost  any 
good  red-blooded  human  would  get  a  kick  out  of 
watching,  from  a  nice,  dry  car  platform,  another 
good  red-blooded  human  bumping-the-bumps  down 
a  rocky  riffle.  But  I  would  never  have  been  honest 
enough  to  confess  my  hopes — to  the  man  who  might 
have  figured  in  the  spill,  that  is.  That  was  where 
this  chap  with  the  notions  line  would  always  have 
me  one  down.  And  what  a  shame  it  was  I  couldn't 
hold  him  long  enough  to  learn  how  he  made  himself 
that  way. 

"Buffaloe  Shoal"  was  the  first  of  what  one  might 
call  Clark's  ^'Menagerie  Series"  of  rapids.  The  next, 
twenty  miles  below,  was  named  Bear  Rapid,  because 
they  saw  a  bear  standing  there.  The  third,  two  miles 
below  the  mouth  of  the  Powder,  was  christened  Wolf 
Rapid,  "from  seeing  a  wolf  there."  Clark  describes 
Bear  Rapids  as  "a  shoal,  caused  by  a  number  of  rocks 
strewed  over  the  river ;  but  though  the  waves  are  high, 
there  is  a  very  good  channel  to  the  left,  which  ren- 
ders the  passage  secure."     Wolf  is  dismissed  as  "a 


BILLINGS  TO  GLlENDIVE  233 

rapid  of  no  great  danger."  A  hundred  spring  floods 
have  doubtless  had  the  effect  of  worsening  Wolf— a 
bedrock  rapid — somewhat,  and  of  scouring  out  the 
worst  of  the  boulders  in  Bear.  I  found  the  latter 
only  an  inconsiderable  riffle,  but  the  Wolf  still  showed 
some  mighty  vicious  fangs.  They  were  easy  enough 
to  avoid  in  a  light  skiff,  but  the  old  steamboat  skip- 
pers always  reckoned  there  was  more  potential  trou- 
ble lying  in  ambush  in  the  cracks  of  these  shallowly 
submerged  reefs  of  black  rock  than  at  any  other  place 
on  the  navigated  Yellowstone  or  Missouri. 

The  Powder  is  the  last  of  the  great  southerly  trib- 
utaries of  the  Yellowstone.  Sprawling  over  a  shift- 
ing estuary  in  several  runlets,  it  looked  much  as  it 
must  have  appeared  to  Clark  when  he  wrote:  "The 
water  is  very  muddy,  and  like  its  banks  of  a  dark 
brown  colour.  Its  current  throws  out  great  quanti- 
ties of  red  stones;  which  circumstances,  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  distant  hills,  induced  Captain  Clark 
to  call  it  the  Redstone,  which  he  afterward  found 
to  be  the  meaning  of  its  Indian  name,  Wahasah/* 
At  his  camp  here  Clark  found  the  buffalo  prowling  so 
close  during  the  night  that  "they  excited  much  alarm, 
lest  in  crossing  the  river  they  should  tread  on  the  boats 
and  split  them  to  pieces." 

Below  the  Powder  the  river  flows  for  some  distance 
through  an  extensive  belt  of  Bad  Lands,  a  burnt, 


234       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

barren,  savage-looking  country  with  little  vegetation, 
few  streams,  and  miles  of  fantastic  castles,  kiosks  and 
minarets  of  black  and  red  rock.  It  is  desolate  in  the 
extreme  even  when  viewed  from  the  cool  current  of 
the  river,  but  surely  in  no  wise  so  sinister  and  forbid- 
ding as  those  terrible  stretches  of  Bad  Lands  between 
the  Yellowstone  and  Little  Missouri  which  grim  old 
General  Sully,  after  pursuing  the  Sioux  over  their 
scorched  rocks  for  a  season,  so  aptly  described  as 
"Hell-With-the-Lights-Out." 

Finding  Terry  was  out  of  sight  behind  the  hills, 
I  landed  about  eight  o'clock  to  make  camp  on  a  gravel 
bar.  A  grizzled  old  codger,  across  whose  fish-lines 
I  came  crabbing  in,  seemed  more  pleased  than  put 
out  over  the  diversion.  He  could  fish  twenty-four 
hours  a  day,  he  explained,  but  a  man  willing  to  be 
talked  to  wasn't  the  sort  of  a  bird  that  came  along  to 
that  neck  of  the  river  every  day.  So  he  went  up  to  his 
cabin,  brought  down  some  eggs  and  milk,  and  we 
pooled  grub  and  suppered  together  there  under  the 
cottonwoods  by  the  river.  He  had  hunted,  trapped, 
prospected  and  searched  for  agates  for  fifty  years, 
and  it  was  well  into  the  night  before  he  had  told  me 
all  about  it.  A  confession  of  my  old  love  for  "Calam- 
ity Jane"  broke  down  his  reserve  at  the  outset. 
He  had  seen  a  lot  of  the  dear  old  girl  at  the  very  ze- 
nith of  her  career.     He  told  a  delicious  story  of  how 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  235 

"Calamity,"  her  paprika  temperament  ruffled  by  a 
dude's  red  necktie,  had  tried  to  make  that  unfortu- 
nate eat  the  offending  rag  at  the  point  of  a  pistol. 
The  advice  with  which  she  had  endeavoured  to  sauce 
the  untoothsome  morsel  was  rather  the  best  part  of 
the  yarn,  but  it  was  hardly  sufficiently  "drawing- 
room"  to  find  place  in  these  chaste  chronicles. 

There  was  a  strong  up-river  breeze  blowing  when  I 
got  under  way  at  six  the  next  morning.  When  this 
came  dead  ahead  it  had  no  effect  other  than  slowing 
down  my  progress  greatly,  but  when  the  direction  of 
the  channel  brought  it  more  or  less  abeam  I  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  from  being  blown  under 
the  caving  banks.  This  was,  as  I  remember  it,  my 
first  experience  of  what  later  became  perhaps  the  most 
annoyingly  persistent  difficulty  attending  my  pro- 
gress down  both  the  Missouri  and  Mississippi.  After 
getting  in  trouble  two  or  three  times  and  having  to 
stop  to  bail  out  and  recover  my  wind,  I  gave  up  the 
fight  about  noon  and  landed  at  a  highly  picturesque 
old  ranch  twenty-five  miles  above  Glendive.  The 
clanging  of  a  dinner  gong  was  not  the  least  pleasant 
sound  that  assailed  my  ears  as  I  climbed  the  bank. 

Belonging  to  Charley  Krug  of  Glendive,  the  place 
was  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  historic  of  Montana 
cattle  ranches.  Built  in  the  Indian  days,  and  in  an 
extremely  windy  section  of  country,  the  buildings 


236      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

appeared  to  be  something  of  a  compromise  between 
forts  and  cyclone  cellars.  Nothing  short  of  a  "Big 
Bertha"  could  have  made  much  impression  upon  the 
enormous  cottonwood  logs — and  the  Sioux,  I  believe, 
had  nothing  heavier  than  Springfields. 

The  professional  personnel  of  the  outfit  was 
wrapped  in  gloom  over  the  advent  of  a  devastating 
light  of  grasshoppers  that  was  rapidly  cleaning  up  the 
ranges  down  to  the  gravel.  This  sodden  shroud,  how- 
ever, did  not  blanket  the  cook — an  exception  of  im- 
portance from  my  standpoint.  This  individual  was 
a  part-time  wrestler  and  prize-fighter,  abandoning 
the  squared-circle  for  the  pots  and  pans  only  in  the 
off  seasons.  He  introduced  himself  to  me  as 
"Happy"  Coogan,  and  then  proceeded  to  show  why 
he  was  so  called.  Backing  me  up  behind  a  food  bar- 
rage, he  sang  a  song,  danced  a  jig,  illustrated  Jack 
Dempsey's  left  hook  and  Gotch's  "toe-hold"  on  a 
half-breed  cow-puncher,  and  then  challenged  all-com- 
ers at  a  "catch-as-catch-can"  rough-and-tumble  with 
nothing  barred  but  gouging  and  biting.  Now  who 
could  worry  about  grasshoppers  with  a  man  like  that 
around? 

"Happy"  recited  excerpts  from  his  ring  career  all 
afternoon  while  I  ate  apple  pie  with  cream  poured 
over  it  and  waited  for  the  wind  to  cease.  It  was  fall- 
ing lighter  by  five,  but  my  host  would  not  hear  of  my 


BILLINGS  TO  GLENDIVE  237 

leaving  before  supper.  Impromptu  cabaret  work 
lengthened  that  banquet  out  to  eight  o'clock,  and  it 
was  early  twilight  before  I  finally  broke  away  and 
went  down  to  push  off.  "Happy"  followed  me  down, 
his  arms  filled  with  eggs,  milk,  jams,  pies  and  various 
other  comestibles.  "Don't  like  to  let  a  man  go  off 
hungry,"  he  explained.  "Never  know  when  I  may 
be  needing  a  hand-out  myself." 

Bless  your  generous  heart,  "Happy";  I  only  hope 
I  may  be  cruising  in  your  vicinity  if  you  ever  need 
that  hand-out.  That  bucket  of  California  home-dried 
apricots  I  left  you  didn't  go  toward  balancing  our 
grub  account. 

With  no  very  swift  water  ahead  and  the  prospect 
of  a  fairly  clear  night,  I  had  hopes  for  a  while  of 
drifting  right  on  through  to  Glendive.  These  hopes 
— along  with  me  and  my  outfit — ^were  dampened  by 
a  shower  shortly  after  I  started,  and  completely 
dashed  by  a  steady  drizzle  that  set  in  about  nine. 
Dragging  up  the  skiff  on  the  first  bar  on  which  it 
grounded  in  the  now  pitchy  darkness,  I  inflated  my 
sleeping-pocket,  crawled  into  it  and  went  to  sleep. 
Awakening  at  dawn  to  find  a  cloudless  sky,  I  crawled 
out,  pushed  off,  and  was  in  Glendive  before  six  o'clock. 
Landing  half  a  mile  above  town,  I  climbed  up  to  a 
shack  which  "Happy"  Coogan  had  told  me  was  owned 
by  a  friend  of  his  who  had  worked  in  the  local  pool- 


238       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

room.  It  was  no  sort  of  hour  to  awaken  a  tired 
business  man  of  a  Sunday  morning,  but  * 'Happy's" 
name  proved  open  sesame.  It  took  some  rearrang- 
ing to  get  my  stuff  into  that  ten-by-twelve  shack  with 
a  man,  his  wife  and  their  seven  children.  Somehow 
we  managed  it,  however ;  moreover,  the  whole  nine  of 
them  pledged  themselves  to  stand  watch-and-watch 
over  the  skiff  until  I  showed  up  again,  no  matter 
how  long  that  might  be.  The  true  river  spirit  had 
awakened  even  in  these  dwellers  on  the  fringes  of 
Glendive's  municipal  dump.     Bath,  breakfast,  snooze 

and  another  seance  with  inevitable  proofs  was  the 
order  of  the  day. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI 

Glendive,  located  on  the  Yellowstone  at  a  point 
where  the  Northern  Pacific  leaves  the  river  to  cut 
across  the  Bad  Lands  straight  for  the  plains  of  North 
Dakota,  owes  more  to  the  railroad  than  perhaps  any- 
other  town  of  the  valley.  Although  Glendive  Creek 
was  a  frequent  halt  in  the  steamboat  days  of  the 
Indian  campaigns,  there  was  never  much  of  a  set- 
tlement there  until  railway  construction  commenced 
in  the  late  'seventies.  The  first  train  pulled  into 
Glendives  almost  forty  years  to  a  day  previous  to  my 
arrival  by  boat.  I  found  a  fine,  clean,  prosperous 
little  city  of  6000  where  my  puffing  predecessor  had 
drawn  up  to  little  more  than  a  typical  frontier  con- 
struction camp.  Range  stock  helped  the  town  along 
in  its  earlier  days,  but  the  railway  shops  probably 
did  more.  Finally  the  completion  of  the  dam  at  In- 
take and  the  distribution  of  water  to  the  most  ex- 
tensive irrigable  area  in  the  Yellowstone  Valley  pro- 
vided a  tributary  agricultural  territory  of  great 
wealth. 

There  was  one  thing  I  was  especially  interested  in 

239 


240      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

seeing  in  Glendive — a  school  musical  system  that  is 
probably  without  a  near  rival  in  any  town  in  America 
five  times  as  large.  I  was  assured  that,  of  a  school 
enrolment  of  about  a  thousand,  nearly  two  hundred 
pupils  played  some  kind  of  a  musical  instrument. 
There  was  an  orchestra  of  sixty  pieces,  and  a  boy's 
military  band  of  sixty-five.  Each  was  divided 
into  junior  and  senior  grades,  and  a  member  was 
pushed  ahead  or  dropped  back  according  to  talent 
and  effort.  At  no  time  did  a  pupil  have  a  place 
cinched;  nothing  but  steady  conscientious  effort,  reg- 
ular attendance  at  rehearsals,  and  proper  general 
deportment  won  promotion,  or  prevented  demotion. 
Perhaps  the  finest  thing  about  the  whole  system,  was 
the  fact  that  it  was  undertaken  entirely  apart  from 
the  regular  curriculum,  no  school  credits  whatever  be- 
ing given  for  the  work.  I  was  told  the  credit  for 
this  fine  achievement  belonged  to  a  principal  of  one 
of  the  grade  schools,  a  Miss  Lucille  Hennigar,  who 
had  put  herself  behind  it  purely  out  of  love  of  music 
and  children. 

I  did  not  have  the  honour  of  meeting  Miss  Henni- 
gar, but  I  did  make  the  acquaintance  of  some  of  her 
protieges.  First  and  last,  about  two  score  of  them 
must  have  chanced  along  in  the  hour  I  was  tinkering 
with  my  boat  late  Sunday  afternoon.  They  were 
regular  fellows  all  right  (every  other  one  wanted  to 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    241 

come  down  in  the  morning  and  sign  on  with  me) ,  but 
not  a  hoodlum  in  the  lot.  Not  a  mother's  darling  of 
them  tried  to  kick  a  hole  in  my  little  tin  shallop. 
As  none  of  them  exhibited  any  symptoms  of  infantile 
paralysis,  I  decided  it  must  be  music — quieting  the 
mean  foot  as  well  as  soothing  the  savage  breast. 

Warned  by  every  authority  from  Captain  Clark  to 
an  agate-hunter  I  had  passed  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Powder  that  I  was  now  approaching  the  "Mosquito 
Coast"  of  the  Yellowstone,  I  made  special  point  of 
preparing  to  go  into  battle  by  getting  the  best  kind 
of  a  sleep  I  could  in  Glendive.  This  made  it  partic- 
ularly gratifying  to  find  that  this  good  httle  city 
had  just  about  the  cleanest,  most  comfortable  and 
best  run  hotel  in  the  valley.  I  should  have  paid  it 
that  tribute  even  had  not  its  genial  manager,  in  com- 
pany with  the  Secretary  of  the  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce, driven  down  to  see  me  off — bringing  an  es- 
pecially appealing  little  cold  lunch. 

It  was  late  in  the  forenoon  before  I  got  away. 
Just  as  I  was  about  to  push  off  a  telegram  was 
brought  down  to  me  from  Mr.  A.  M.  Cleland,  Pas- 
senger Traffic  Manager  of  the  Northern  Pacific,  say- 
ing that  he  had  heard  of  my  trip  and  was  wiring  all 
the  company's  agents  along  the  river  to'  be  on  the 
watch  to  lend  me  a  hand,  and  to  consider  any  of  the 
N.   P.'s   shops   at  my   service  for  repairs.     Even 


242       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

though  it  arrived  at  the  very  moment  I  was  turning 
away  from  the  main  line  of  the  Northern  Pacific, 
which  I  had  paralleled  all  the  way  from  Livingston, 
I  was  nevertheless  just  as  appreciative  of  the  spirit 
that  prompted  the  courteous  and  kindly  message. 

Captain  Clark  had  made  camp  just  above  Glen- 
dive,^  "where  they  saw  the  largest  white  bear  that 
any  of  the  party  had  ever  before  seen,  devouring  a 
dead  buffalo  on  a  sand  bar.  They  fired  two  balls 
into  him;  he  then  swam  to  the  mainland  and  walked 
along  the  shore.  Captain  Clark  pursued  him  and 
lodged  two  more  balls  in  his  body ;  but  though  he  bled 
profusely  he  made  his  escape,  as  night  prevented  them 
from  following  him." 

As  the  country  below  Glendive  is  probably  both  the 
richest  and  most  intensively  cultivated  in  the  whole 
Yellowstone  Valley,  I  was  especially  struck  by  the 
contrast  presented  by  verdant  irrigated  fields  of  al- 
falfa and  clover  to  the  howling  wilderness  Clark  de- 
scribed. Nowhere  else  in  all  of  his  journey  back  and 
forth  across  the  continent  had  he  seen  such  a  variety 
and  such  numbers  of  animals.  It  must  have  been 
somewhere  below  the  present  site  of  the  great  Govern- 

1  In  reading  Clark's  notes  in  the  original  it  should  be  born  in  mind 
that  they  were  written  almost  entirely  in  the  third  person.  His  spell- 
ings were  often  most  originally  phonetic,  but  not  always  conforming 
to  one  system.  I  have  found  three  distinct  spellings  of  mosquito  in  a 
single  paragraph,  and  buffalo  was  often  rendered  "buffaloe"  and 
"buffalow."         L.  R.  F. 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    243 

ment  dam  at  Intake  that  the  buffalo  began  to  appear 
in  vast  numbers.  As  their  boat  floated  down  "a 
herd  happened  to  be  on  their  way  across  the  river. 
Such  was  the  multitude  of  these  animals  that,  though 
the  river,  including  an  island  over  which  they  passed, 
was  a  mile  wide,  the  herd  stretched,  as  thickly  as 
they  could  swim,  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  the 
party  was  obliged  to  stop  for  an  hour."  Forty-five 
miles  below,  two  other  herds  as  numerous  as  the  first 
blocked  their  way  again. 

The  following  day  they  found  the  "buffalo  and 
elk,  as  well  as  the  pursuers  of  both,  the  wolves,  in 
great  numbers."  Moreover,  *'the  bears,  which  gave 
so  much  trouble  on  the  head  of  the  Missouri,  are 
equally  fierce  in  this  quarter.  This  morning  one  of 
them,  which  was  on  a  sandbar  as  the  boat  passed, 
raised  himself  on  his  hind  legs;  and  after  looking  at 
the  party,  plunged  in  and  swam  toward  them.  He 
was  received  with  three  balls  in  the  body;  he  then 
turned  around  and  made  for  the  shore.  Toward  eve- 
ning another  entered  the  water  to  swim  across.  Cap- 
tain Clark  ordered  the  boat  toward  the  shore,  and 
just  as  the  bear  landed,  shot  the  animal  in  the  head. 
It  proved  to  be  the  largest  female  they  had  ever  seen, 
so  old  that  its  tusks  were  worn  quite  smooth.  The 
boats  escaped  with  difficulty  between  two  herds  of 
buffalo  that  were  crossing  the  river."     On  this  same 


2U       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

day  great  numbers  of  bull  elk  were  reported,  and 
also,  "on  some  rugged  hills  to  the  southeast,"  numer- 
ous bighorn. 

In  all  the  records  of  western  exploration  and  travel 
I  can  recall  nothing  that  suggested  such  an  astonish- 
ing plenitude  of  many  kinds  of  large  animals  in 
one  region.  It  would  not  have  been  so  hard  to  con- 
jure up  the  picture  along  some  of  the  wilder  reaches 
of  the  upper  river,  but  here — with  those  pretty  little 
forty  and  fifty-acre  farms,  all  under  ditch  and  culti- 
vated to  their  last  foot,  stretching  away  mile  after 
mile  on  my  left — it  was  asking  almost  too  much  of 
the  imagination  to  perform  such  acrobatics. 

In  a  steady  but  ever  slackening  current  it  took 
me  about  four  hours  to  pull  the  thirty  miles  to  the 
Intake  dam.  The  tovm  was  on  the  left  but  the  ab- 
rupt bluff  at  that  point  indicated  the  right  as  the 
easier  portage.  The  smooth  green  current  of  the 
water  over  the  end  of  the  concrete  barrier  tempted 
me  for  a  moment  to  avoid  portaging  by  letting  down 
the  empty  boat  on  a  line.  Sober  second  thought 
counselled  caution — that  water  at  the  end  of  a  twelve- 
foot  drop  had  too  much  of  a  kick  in  reserve  to  make 
it  safe  to  trifle  with.  Better  safe  than  submerged  is 
a  servicable  variation  of  the  old  saw  for  river  use. 

There  was  a  considerable  stretch  af  rip-raping  and 
other  rocky  barriers — laid  to  protect  the  €nd  of  the 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     245 

dam  at  flood  time — to  get  the  boat  over,  but  a  young 
rancher,  just  driving  up  to  the  ferry,  kindly  volun- 
teered to  come  up  and  give  me  a  hand.  Carrying  the 
trim  little  craft  bodily  for  a  couple  of  hundred  feet, 
we  put  it  into  his  wagon  and  drove  down  a  hundred 
yards  to  the  ferry-landing  where  it  was  easier  launch- 
ing than  near  the  dam.  He  was  all  against  being 
paid  for  his  trouble,  but  finally  suggested  twenty- 
five  cents  as  his  idea  of  what  was  fair.  He  looked 
actually  distressed  when,  with  a  wristy  movie  actor's 
gesture  of  finality,  I  gave  him  the  whole  of  a  dollar 
bill.  What  wouldn't  a  farmer  on  a  country  high- 
way have  charged  for  half  that  much  labour  pulling 
a  Ford  out  of  a  mud-hole? 

But  it  appears  that  even  non-river  dwelling  folk 
are  not  mercenary  in  this  neck  of  Montana.  A  cow- 
boy-like girl  who  had  just  ridden  up  on  a  prancing 
pinto  frowned  darkly  when  she  saw  the  greenback 
pass.  Spurring  down  to  the  water  as  I  finished  trim- 
ming the  boat,  she  leaned  down  close  to  my  ear, 
whispering  stagily  through  her  hollowed  gauntlet: 
"Too  bad  you  didn't  see  me  first,  stranger;  I'd  'a 
yanked  down  that  lil'  sardine-tin  there  on  the  end  of 
my  rope  for  nothin'."  That  was  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  anybody  called  "stranger"  outside  of  Wild 
West  stories  written  in  the  Tame  East.  Later,  down 
Nebraska  and  Missouri-way,  however,  I  found  that 


246       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

address  in  common  use  by  people  in  real  life.  There' 
no  end  of  a  thrill  in  finding  story-book  stuff  in  real 
life — I  suppose  because  it  happens  so  darn'd  seldom. 
There  were  a  few  flashes  of  white  in  the  riffle  be- 
low the  dam;  then  a  broadening  river  and  slacken- 
ing water.  Many  and  unmistakable  signs  told  me 
that  I  was  now  skirting  the  dread  "Mosquito  Coast." 
Cattle  nose-deep  in  the  water  or  rushing  blindly 
through  the  thorny  bull-berry  bjashes,  smudge-bar- 
rages round  the  ranch  houses,  dark,  shifting  clouds 
over  the  marshes  and  over-flow  lakes — every  one  of 
them  was  a  sign  of  an  ancient  enemy,  an  enemy  who 
had  drawn  first  and  last  blood  on  every  field  I  had 
met  him  from  the  Amazon  to  Alaska.  Knowing  that 
I  was  going  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  him  for  many 
hundreds  of  miles,  I  had  come  prepared,  both  mentally 
and  physically.  Nevertheless  I  looked  forward  with 
no  small  apprehension  to  a  contest  which  could  not 
be  other  than  a  losing  one — for  me.  Moreover,  I 
had  too  many  dormant  malarial  germs  in  my  once- 
fever  thinned  blood  to  care  to  risk  their  being  driven 
to  the  warpath  again  by  too  intimate  contact  with 
other  Bolsheviki  of  the  same  breed.  Frankly,  Herr 
Mosquito,  with  his  shrecklichkeit,  was  one  thing 
above  all  others  that  had  given  me  pause  in  planning 
a  voyage  that  would  carry  me  through  so  many  thou- 
sand miles  of  his  Happy  Hunting  Grounds.    Miles 


mee^h^ 


MW^m 


THE  DAM  ACROSS  THE  YELLOWSTOxXE  AT  INTAKE    (Above) 
PORTAGING  MY  BOAT  ROUND  THE  INTAKE   DAM    (Center) 
COMPLETING  THE  PORTAGE    (Beloiv) 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    247 

and  Terry  and*  Crook  had  driven  the  Redskin  from 
the  Yellowstone  and  Missouri,  Civilization  had  ex- 
terminated the  buffalo,  but  the  mosquito  still  ranged 
unchecked  over  his  ancient  domain.  It  was  just  a 
question  of  how  much  blood  one  was  going  to  have 
to  yield  up  to  get  by  his  toll-gate-keepers. 

Some  kind  of  a  poor  old  river-rat — doubtless  an 
agate-hunter, — ringed  with  smudges  and  trying  to 
spare  time  enough  from  fighting  the  enemy  to  hold  a 
frying  pan  over  a  smouldering  fire  gave  me  a  graphic 
warning  of  what  fate  awaited  me  if  I  tried  to  camp 
by  the  bank.  Forthwith  I  decided  to  get  my  supper  in 
the  boat,  run  till  near  dark,  pick  the  likeliest-looking 
ranch,  tell  them  I  was  a  farmer  myself,  and  let 
human  nature  take  its  course.  I  had  had  the  plan 
of  adding  a  galley  to  the  boat  in  mind  for  some  days. 
Drifting  while  I  munched  a  cold  lunch  had  already 
eliminated  the  noonday  halt,  and  I  was  now  figuring 
to  let  the  river  also  go  on  with  its  work  during  break- 
fast and  supper  hours  as  well.  My  first  plan  was  to 
make  a  little  stove  by  cutting  holes  in  an  oil-can,  set- 
ting this  on  the  non-inflammable  steel  bottom  of  my 
boat  and  cooking  with  wood  in  the  ordinary  way. 
Then,  in  a  store  window  in  Glendive,  I  saw  a  midget 
of  a  stove  that  worked  with  gasoline  pumped  under 
pressure.  It  was  called  a  "Kampkook,"  but  I  could 
see  every  reason  why  it  would  also  make  a  perfectly 


248      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

good  "Boatkook."  Drifting  just  beyond  the  wall  of 
the  coastwise  mosquito  barrage,  I  tried  it  out  that 
evening.  Bacon  and  eggs,  petit  pais,  mulligatawny 
soup,  dried  apricots  and  a  pot  of  cocoa — all  these  de- 
lectables  I  fried,  boiled  or  stewed  without  pausing 
from  rowing  for  more  than  an  occasional  prod,  stir  or 
shake.  When  all  was  ready,  I  removed  the  thwart 
from  the  forward  section,  threw  my  half-inflated 
sleeping-bag  in  the  bottom,  disposed  a  couple  of  cush- 
ions, and  suppered  like  Cleopatra  on  her  barge,  re- 
clining at  my  ease.  With  occasional  spice-lending- 
variations,  that  sybaritic  program  was  followed  on 
many  another  evening  right  on  to  the  finish,  of  my 
voyage.  I  loved  too  well  the  smell  of  "wood  smoke 
at  twilight"  to  forego  entirely  the  joy  of  the  camp  on 
the  bank,  but  wherever  that  bank  was  muddy  or 
infested  by  mosquitos,  I.  W.  W.'s,  or  other  undesir- 
ables, or  whenever  I  was  trying  to  make  time,  I  had  a 
perfectly  self-contained  ship  aboard  which  I  could  eat 
and  sleep  with  entire  comfort. 

It  was  early  twilight  before  I  came  to  just  the 
ranch  that  I  was  looking  for.  Distantly  at  first,  like 
the  gold  at  the  end  of  a  rainbow,  I  saw  it  transfigured 
in  the  sunset  glow  at  the  end  of  the  vista  of  a  long 
wine-dark  side-channel.  There  was  -a  sprawling, 
broad-eaved  bungalow,  vine-covered  and  inviting,  big 
new  red  barns  and  a  lofty  silo  that  loomed  like  a 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     249 

tower  against  the  sun-flushed  western  sky.  I  named 
it  "Ranch  of  the  Heart's  Desire'*  on  the  instant,  for 
I  knew  that  it  could  give  all  that  I  most  intensely 
craved — cover  from  the  enemy.  I  tied  up  at  the 
landing  as  a  sea-worn  skipper  drops  his  anchor  in- 
a  harbour  of  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

The  long  avenue  of  cottonwoods  up  to  the  bunga- 
low seemed  to  be  filled  with  about  equal  parts  of 
mosquitos  and  Jersey  cows.  Doubtless  the  mosqui- 
tos  were  much  the  more  numerous.  But  because  it 
hurts  more  to  hit  a  running  cow  than  a  flying  insect 
I  probably  was  impressed  with  the  Jerseys  out  of  all 
proportion  to  their  actual  numbers.  A  dash  through 
a  "No-Man's-Land"  of  smouldering  smudges  and  I 
burst  into  a  Haven  of  Refuge  at  the  bungalow  door. 
A  genial  chap  with  a  steady  smile  met  me  as  I  emerged 
from  the  smoke,  complimented  me  upon  the 
smartness  of  my  open-field  running  among  the  Jer- 
seys, and  opined  that  I  must  have  been  a  pretty 
shifty  fullback  in  my  day.  A  youth  in  greasy  overalls 
who  came  wiggling  out  from  under  a  Ford  he  intro- 
duced as  "My  hired  man."  But  when  the  latter 
blushed  and  protested:  "Now  there  you  go  again, 
dear!"  he  admitted  that  it  was  only  his  wife.  They 
promptly  insisted  I  should  have  supper,  while  I  had 
considerable  difficulty  in  making  them  believe  I  had 
a  galley  functioning  in  my  boat.     We  finally  compro- 


250       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

mised  on  ice-cream  and  strawberries.  All  the  ranch- 
ers along  the  lower  Yellowstone  and  upper  Missouri 
have  ice-houses. 

They  were  just  the  kind  of  folk  one  knew  he  would 
have  to  find  in  a  haven  called  "Ranch  of  the  Heart's 
Desire."  Their  name  was  Patterson,  and  they  had 
lived  most  of  their  lives  in  Washington — in  some  kind 
of  departmental  service.  Becoming  tired — or  per- 
haps ashamed — of  working  six  hours  a  day,  they 
bought  a  ranch  under  the  Yellowstone  project  ditch 
and  started  working  sixteen.  So  far  they  had  been 
spending  rather  more  money  than  they  had  made  but, 
like  all  on  the  threshold  of  bucolic  life,  looked  confi- 
dently to  a  future  rainbow-bright  with  prospects. 
They  confessed  that  it  awakened  a  wee  bit  of  nostal- 
gia to  meet  one  who  had  been  in  Washington,  and 
so  it  chanced  that  it  was  of  "Things  Washington- 
ese"  that  we  talked  rather  than  of  our  experiences  as 
farmers. 

There  was  something  strangely  appealing  to  the 
imagination  in  sitting  there  where  the  bison  in  his 
millions  had  so  lately  trod  and  putting  everything  and 
everybody  at  the  Primal  Fount  in  their  proper  places. 
Long  into  the  night  we  rattled  on  just  as  though  over 
a  table  at  the  Shoreham,  the  New  Williard  or  Chevy 
Chase — just  as  we  would  have  talked  in  Washington. 
Knocking  Wilson  whenever  any  other  subject  was 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     251 

exhausted,  we  bemoaned  the  predominance  of  tWrd- 
class  men  in  Congress,  agreed  that  Harding  wouldn't 
do  much  harm  and  might  do  good,  swapped  yarns 
about  the  funny  things  Congressmen's  wives  had  said 
and  done,  and  passed  by  acclamation  a  motion  that  the 
most  unrepresentative  institution  in  America  was  the 
House  of  Representatives.  It  was  highly  refreshing 
to  meet  people  you  could  be  really  frank  with  in  dis- 
cussing the  more  or  less  esoteric  phases  of  these  and 
kindred  subjects.  I  enjoyed  that  evening's  yarn  only 
less  than  I  did  my  couch  on  a  breeze-swept  porch  that 
was  armoured  with  a  woven  copper  mesh  against  the 
assaults  of  the  common  enemy. 

Before  I  pushed  off  in  the  morning  Mr.  Patterson 
took  me  around  two  sides  of  his  ranch  and  showed 
me  some  splendid  fields  of  alfalfa  and  sweet  clover, 
just  ready  for  cutting.  Prices  were  good,  he  said, 
and  the  prospects  were  bright  for  the  best  clean-up 
they  had  known  so  far.  I  have  often  wondered  just 
how  those  green,  fragrant  fields  looked  ten  hours  later, 
just  how  much  those  optimistic  forecasts  were  modi- 
fied as  a  consequence  of  certain  little  inequalities  of 
atmospheric  pressure  that  were  already  making  their 
differences  felt  in  a  lightning-shot  murkiness  hanging 
low  on  the  northeastern  horizon.  I  did  not  make  sure 
of  the  Patterson's  address  and  a  postcard  of  inquiry  I 
subsequently  dispatched  brought  no  reply. 


252      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

I  was  aware  of  the  heavy  humidity  of  the  atmos- 
phere the  moment  I  pulled  out  in  the  slow  current 
of  the  still  broadening  river.  There  was  plenty  of 
air  stirring  but  with  no  fixed  plan  of  action  in  its 
mind.  Now  it  would  swoop  down  over  the  banks  in 
sudden  gusts;  now  it  would  blow  down  river  for  a 
few  moments  and  then  turn  on  its  heel  and  come 
breezing  right  back,  like  a  commuter  who  has  for- 
gotten his  ticket;  now  it  would  deliberately  *'Box-the- 
Compass"  right  round  the  boat,  as  a  cat  circles  a 
rat  that  it  is  just  a  bit  chary  about  springing  on. 

The  easterly  gusts  paved  the  surface  of  the  water 
with  evanescent  patches  of  floating  grasshoppers,  evi- 
dently part  of  a  flight  that  had  not  yet  found  lodg- 
ment in  the  growing  fields  under  the  irrigation  proj- 
ect on  the  other  bank.  After  each  gust  the  fish 
would  rise  greedily  to  the  feast  for  a  few  minutes. 
Satiation  would  come  quickly,  however,  and  most  of 
the  hoppers  were  left  to  drown  or  perhaps  to  gain 
a  few  hours  longer  lease  on  life  by  drifting  to  a  bar. 
One  gust  that  came  while  I  was  skirting  the  shore 
poured  a  literal  grasshopper  cataract  over  the  cut- 
bank  into  the  boat.  There  was  a  sharp,  rasping  con- 
tact where  the  saw-toothed  legs  side-swiped  my  arms 
and  face  that  would  undoubtedly  have  left  abra- 
sions on  the  skin  if  it  had  been  kept  up  for  any  time. 
For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  layer  cS  hoppers  two 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     253 

or  three  inches  deep  in  the  bottom  of  the  skiff;  then 
the  most  of  them  hurdled  out  into  the  water.  The 
dessicated  remains  of  the  few  ambuscados  that  took 
refuge  in  the  grub-box  kept  turning  up  in  a  variety 
of  frys,  stews,  and  fricassees  for  the  next  fortnight. 
I  pulled  up  to  Riverview  Ferry,  well  on  toward 
the  North  Dakota  line,  at  one  o'clock.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Meadows,  with  whom  I  had  lunch,  once  oper- 
ated a  pontoon  bridge  at  this  point  but  had  given  it 
up  on  account  of  the  trouble  from  high  water.  They 
wanted  to  sell  the  twenty  or  more  pontoons  left  on 
their  hands  but  said  they  could  not  see  where  a  buyer 
would  come  from.  It  occurred  to  me  that  one  of 
these  floats  would  make  an  ideal  hull  for  a  house- 
boat, for  a  Missouri-Mississippi  voyage,  just  as  Riv- 
erview would  be  an  ideal  place  for  launching  one. 
I  have  not  Mr.  Meadows'  address,  but  fancy  Sidney, 
Montana,  would  reach  him.  I  shall  not  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  urging  any  one  to  attempt  a  trip  of  this 
kind,  but  should  the  urge  have  developed  spontane- 
ously I  think  there  is  a  chance  here  to  acquire  the 
makings  of  an  extremely  serviceable  house-boat  at  a 
fraction  of  what  it  would  cost  to  go  about  building  it 
in  the  ordinary  way.  Starting  at  high  water  in 
June,  an  outfit  of  this  kind — with  luck  and  in  the 
hands  of  the  right  party — might  well  go  through  to 
New  Orleans  before  Christmas.     Manned  by  a  party 


254       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

without  much  common  sense  and  persistence,  it  might 
conceivably  be  abandoned  by  some  wildly  regretful 
people  before  it  swung  out  into  the  "Big  Muddy." 
I  utterly  refuse  to  pass  upon  any  one's  qualification, 
or  to  take  other  than  hostile  notice  of  letters  charg- 
ing me  with  ruining  what  but  for  me  might  have  been 
a  comparatively  inexpensive  and  enjoyable  holiday  in 
Bermuda  or  on  the  Riviera. 

The  ferryman  at  Riverview  claimed  to  have  made 
the  voyage  from  Miles  City  to  somewhere  on  the 
lower  Mississippi  in  a  house-boat,  taking  two  seasons 
for  it.  He  was  the  first  ferryman  I  ever  met  who  was 
full  of  doleful  warnings  about  troubles  ahead.  My 
little  tin  boat  might  be  all  right  for  the  rapids  of  the 
Yellowstone,  he  said,  but  just  wait  till  it  went  up 
against  the  white  caps  kicked  up  by  the  winds  of  the 
Missouri  and  the  Mississippi.  He  said  no  word  about 
the  winds  of  the  Yellowstone.  If  he  wasn't  pre- 
pared for  them,  I  only  hope  his  ferryboat  was  not 
caught  in  midstream  by  a  zephyr  that  breezed  up 
river  about  three  hours  later. 

It  must  have  "been  toward  three  o'clock  4;hat  I  first 
noticed  how  what  had  been  a  grey  murkiness  to  the 
north-east  all  morning  was  now  rising  in  a  solid  bank 
of  swiftly  advancing  cloud.  For  a  while  its  front 
was  smooth  and  rounded,  like  the  rim  of  a  tin-plate. 
Half-way  up  to  the  zenith  this  front  began  to  reveal 


n 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     255 

itself  as  a  wind-riven  line  of  madly  racing  nimbus, 
black,  sinister  and  ominous.  And  yet,  blissfully  ig- 
norant of  the  hell-broth  a-brew,  I  worried  not  a  whit 
— didn't  even  begin  to  edge  away  from  mid-channel 
for  a  while,  in  fact.  What  a  lamb  it  was!  Never 
again,  with  so  much  as  a  man's-hand-sized  cloud  blink- 
ing on  the  windward  horizon,  was  I  to  know  the 
calm,  quiet,  serenity  of  a  confident  soul. 

A  long,  lean,  torpedo-like  shaft  of  blue-black  cloud, 
breaking  away  from  the  ruck  and  aiming  in  a  direc- 
tion that  would  bring  it  directly  over  my  head,  pro- 
duced the  first  splash  in  the  pool  of  my  perfect  se- 
renity. That  did  look  just  a  bit  as  though  I  might 
be  running  into  the  centre  of  a  heavy  thunder-storm, 
I  confessed  to  myself.  Perhaps,  if  there  was  a  ranch- 
house  convenient,  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  be  think- 
ing of  getting  under  cover.  Yes,  there  were  three 
or  four  houses  off  to  the  left — places  on  the  irrigation 
project,  doubtless,  they  were  so  close  together.  I 
started  to  pull  in  toward  a  sandy  flat,  but  sheered 
off  again  when  it  becaike  apparent  that  a  slough  and 
marsh  would  cut  me  off  from  the  first  of  the  houses, 
a  place  with  a  silo  and  the  inevitable  red  bam. 
Plainly  the  only  way  to  reach  any  of  the  farms  would 
be  by  landing  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  ahead,  climbing  up  and  cutting  across  the 
fields.     That  might  not  be  possible  before  the  storm 


256       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

broke — but  what  did  a  warm  summer  rain  matter 
anyhow? 

Leaning  hard  onto  my  oars,  I  headed  straight  down 
stream  for  where  a  coal-streaked  yellow  bluff  blocked 
the  northerly  course  of  the  river  and  bent  it  off  al- 
most directly  eastward.  Swelling  monstrously  as  it 
approached,  the  black  arrow-head  of  the  storm,  de- 
flecting sHghtly,  began  to  pass  overhead  to  the  left. 
I  distinctly  remember  thinking  how  its  shape  now  sug- 
gested the  picked  skeleton  of  a  gigantic  mackerel — 
just  a  backbone  and  right-angling  ribs.  The  sun 
dimmed  and  reddened  as  the  flying  clouds  began  to 
drive  across  its  face,  and  the  even  ribs  barred  the  dull- 
ing glow  like  a  furnace  grating.  A  sulphurous,  cop- 
perly  glare  streaming  through  cast  a  weird  unearthly 
sheen  on  the  unrhythmically  lapping  wavelets  of  the 
river.  My  serenity  was  blotted  out  with  the  sun.  I 
recalled  only  too  well  now  where  I  had  known  that 
ghostly  yellow  light  before — the  sullen  fore-glow  by 
which  the  South  Sea  hurricane  slunk  upon  its  helpless 
prey.  It  had  always  been  associated  in  my  mind  with 
the  shriek  of  the  wind,  the  roar  of  the  surf  and  the 
explosive  detonations  of  snapped  coco  palm  boles. 
There  were  no  coco  palms  here  to  snap,  I  reflected, 
but — ah,  that  was  surely  a  roar,  and  there  came  the 
wind! 

Pulling  in  a  dead  calm  myself,  I  saw  the  river  and 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     257 

air  at  the  bend  turn  white  ahnost  between  one  stroke 
and  the  next.  A  tongue  of  wind  seemed  to  have  shot 
out  from  behind  a  point  to  the  right  and  begun  scoop- 
ing up  hunks  of  the  river  and  throwing  them  across 
the  flats.  This  blast  was  at  right  angles  to  my  course 
down  stream,  but  I  came  parallel  to  it  as  I  swung  and 
headed  for  the  sand-bar  on  my  left.  The  air  was  coil- 
ing and  twisting  upon  itself  as  I  landed,  but  that 
out-licking  tongue  of  the  storm  was  passing  me  by 
and  circling  the  bluffs  beyond  the  flat. 

Without  unloading  the  skiff,  I  dragged  her  as  far 
in  on  the  bar  as  I  could,  threw  my  stuff  together  in 
the  forward  section  and  snugged  it  down  under  a 
tarpaulin.  Its  weight  might  keep  the  boat  from 
blowing  away,  I -figured.  Then  I  drove  oars  in  the 
sand  with  an  ax  and  ran  lines  to  them  from  bow  and 
stern — ^land-moorings,  so  to  epeak.  The  fore-front 
of  the  wind  hard  and  sohd  as  the  side  of  a  moving 
barn,  caught  me  from  behind  as  I  made  fast  the  bow- 
line. I  went  forward  to  my  knees,  sprawled  flat, 
wiggled  round  head-on  and  then,  leaning  far  forward, 
slowly  struggled  to  my  feet.  Hanging  balanced  at 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  I  started  slowly  crabbing 
back  to  the  boat.  It  wasn't  so  bad  after  all,  I  told 
myself.  The  skiff  was  not  giving  an  inch  to  the  blast, 
while  leaning  up  against  the  wind  that  way  was  rather 
good  fun.     I  recalled  a  stunt  something  like  it  that 


258       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Little  Tich  used  to  pull  in  the  London  Halls — an 
eccentric  dance  with  enormously  elongated  shoes. 
I  decided  that  perhaps  I  was  even  enjoying  the  di- 
version a  bit.  In  half -pretended  nonchalance  I 
turned  my  head  and  cast  a  side-glance  over  toward 
the  farmhouses  back  of  the  bluffs.  That  was  the 
last  move  of  even  assumed  nonchalance  I  was  guilty  of 
for  some  time. 

That  side-glance  photographed  three  things  on  my 
memory:  a  grove  of  willows  flattened  almost  against 
the  earth  by  the  wind,  two  women,  with  wondrously 
billowing  skirts,  crawling  along  the  side  of  a  house 
toward  a  door,  and  a  flimsy  unpainted  outbuilding  re- 
solving into  its  component  parts  and  pelting  across 
a  corral  full  of  horses.  Doubtless  there  was  more  ani- 
mated action  to  be  observed  had  I  been  spared  an- 
other hundredth  of  a  second  or  so  to  get  a  line  on  it. 
The  three  things  mentioned  were  as  far  as  I  got  when 
the  hail  opened  up. 

With  the  viciousness  of  spattering  shrapnel  that 
first  salvo  of  frozen  pellets  raked  me  across  the  right 
cheek.  The  tingle  of  pain  was  astonishingly  sharp, 
like  that  from  the  blow  of  a  back-snapped  thorn 
branch  on  an  overgrown  trail,  and  I  was  a  bit  sur- 
prised when  an  explorative  finger  revealed  no  trace  of 
blood.  Hunching  my  neck  brought  my  face  under 
cover,  but  the  batteries  of  the  storm  had  got  my  range 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    259 

now  and  there  was  a  decided  sting  to  the  impact  of 
those  baby  icebergs,  even  through  my  slicker  and 
shirt.  People  are  very  prone  to  exaggerate  about  the 
size  of  hail-stones,  so  I  shall  endeavour  to  make  a  spe- 
cial effort  to  be  conservative  about  these.  They  felt 
a  lot  bigger  when  they  hit,  of  course,  but  as  I  exam- 
ined heaps  of  them  afterward  the  average  size  seemed 
to  be  about  that  of  shrapnel  or  large  marbles.  There 
may  have  been  hail-stones  the  size  of  hens'  eggs,  but 
no  one  who  was  ever  exposed  to  them  in  the  open  can 
have  lived  to  tell  the  tale.  Men  looking  out  through 
the  bars  of  jail  may  have  seen  them  and  survived 
to  make  affidavits ;  most  other  authentic  reports  of 
egg-sized  hail-stones  will  doubtless  be  pretty  well  con- 
fined to  the  minutes  of  coroners'  juries.  Indeed,  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  a  considerable  crimp  would 
have  been  put  in  my  down-river  schedule  by  the  com- 
paratively diminutive  pellets  I  faced  on  this  occasion 
but  for  the  shelter  I  presently  found  for  my  head 
under  the  side  of  the  skiff. 

As  the  hail-stones,  flying  before  the  wind,  were 
hurtling  along  almost  horizontally,  huddling  under 
the  lee  bow  of  the  skiff  protected  just  about  all  of 
me  but  my  feet.  Even  that  was  not  good  enough, 
however,  for  the  impact  of  the  blows  on  the  tops  of 
my  toes  left  an  extraordinary  ache  behind  it — some- 
thing that  I  could  not  contemplate  standing  for  an 


260       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

indefinite  number  of  murderous  minutes.  Clawing 
over  the  side  for  a  canvas  or  poncho  to  buffer  the 
worst  of  the  barrage,  my  hand  came  in  contact  with 
the  roll  of  my  sleeping  pocket.  That  gave  me  an 
idea.  The  wind,  getting  inside  the  hollow  bag, 
nearly  tore  it  from  my  hands  as  I  started  to  imroll  it, 
but  once  I  got  it  smothered  under  me  the  rest  was 
easy.  With  my  legs  inside  of  the  bag  and  the  unin- 
flated  rubber  mattress  between  my  feet  and  the  hail- 
stones, about  all  I  had  to  bother  about  seemed  to  be 
a  wind  strong  enough  to  carry  the  boat  away  and  me 
with  it. 

From  the  way  things  developed  for  the  next  cou- 
ple of  minutes  this  appeared  to  be  just  about  what 
was  going  to  happen,  however.  I  cannot  recall  ever 
having  felt  more  panicky  in  my  life  than  when  I  saw 
that  that  fore-running  tongue  of  wind,  which  had 
originally  come  charging  round  the  bend  from  east, 
had  now  circled  southward  along  the  bluffs  below  the 
farmhouses  and  was  heading  straight  back  into  the 
east  again.  That  meant  that  I  was  now  occupying 
the  almost  mathematical  centre  of  the  vortex  of  a  real 
"twister" — that  I  was  about  to  be  rocked  on  the  bosom 
of  a  fairly  husky  young  cyclone.  Something  pro- 
nounced in  the  way  of  an  uplift  movement  was  in- 
evitably due  the  moment  that  back-curving  tongue  of 
air  lapped  round  to  the  place  it  started  from. 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     261 

A  whimsical  comparison  flashed  across  my  mind  in 
watching  through  the  crook  of  my  fending  arm  the 
witch-dance  of  that  circling  blast.  In  some  town  up- 
river  I  had  seen  a  movie  of  the  Custer  Massacre,  at 
the  climacteric  moment  of  which  the  howhng  hordes 
of  Gall  and  Rain-in-the-Face  and  Crazy-Horse 
whirled  in  a  wide  circle  round  their  doomed  victims, 
the  mental  agonies  of  which  latter  were  shown  in  suc- 
cessive cut-ins  of  close-ups.  Now  I  was  once  assured 
by  a  world-famous  movie  star  that  he  always  actually 
felt  in  his  heart — to  the  very  depths  of  his  being — ^the 
emotion  he  was  called  on  to  register,  was  it  murderous 
lust,  ineffable  virtue,  mother-love  or  what-not.  Very 
well.  Assuming  this  to  be  true  of  all  great  movie 
actors,  I  have  very  grave  doubt  if  any  of  that  silver- 
screen  last-stand  battalion  of  Custer's  felt  any  more 
real  a  pricking  of  the  scalp  in  watching  the  closing 
circle  of  dancing  Redskins  than  did  I  in  waiting  for 
that  spinning  blast  of  wind  to  decide  whether  or  not 
it  was  going  to  stage  a  "Pick-me-up"  party. 

It  is  not  quite  clear  in  my  mind  even  now  why 
things  in  my  inmiediate  vicinity  did  not  start  to  avi- 
ate. Several  loosely  built  structures  on  the  bluff 
went  flying  off  like  autumn  leaves,  and  wind  enough 
to  blow  boards  into  tree-tops  would  have  at  least 
sent  my  boat  rolling  if  not  sky-ing.  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  however,  that  the  failure  of  any  marked 


262       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

heliocoptic  action  to  develop  was  due  to  a  lack  of 
pronounced  opposition  on  the  part  of  a  bluffing  turn- 
coat of  a  southwesterly  wind.  The  latter  skirmished 
just  long  enough  to  turn  in  the  vanguards  of  the 
main  storm,  but  took  to  its  heels  the  moment  the  thun- 
derbolt phalanx  was  launched  upon  it.  It  was  the 
advent  of  this  Juggernaut  that  marked  the  end  of 
my  consecutive  impressions.  Primal  Chaos  simply 
clapped  the  lid  down  over  me  and  kept  it  there  for 
several  aeons — fifteen  minutes  to  be  exact. 

Although  it  was  rapidly  getting  darker,  I  had  still 
been  able  to  see  not  a  little  of  what  was  going  on  up 
to  the  moment  the  God  of  the  Thunders  uncorked 
his  artillery;  after  that  I  simply  heard  and  felt  and 
grovelled  in  the  sand.  The  big  red  silo  was  the  last 
of  the  old  workaday  world  I  remember  seeing  be- 
fore my  horizon  contracted  from  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
to  a  scant  ten  feet.  (I  don't  recall  that  old  Jim 
Bridger  ever  made  anything  shrink  as  fast  and  far 
as  that,  even  with  the  astringent  waters  of  Alum 
Creek.)  The  boat  and  I  were  lying  in  a  grey-walled 
cocktailshaker  and  being  churned  up  with  flying  sand, 
hail  and  jagged  hunks  of  blown  river  water.  At 
first  the  resultant  mixture  was  milk-warm,  but  pres- 
ently it  became  hterally  ice-cold,  so  that  I  shivered 
in  it  like  a  new-shorn  lamb.  (The  warm  water  was 
that  blown  from  the  river.     The  subsequent  chilling, 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    263 

as  I  figured  out  afterwards,  was  due  to  the  hail  bank- 
ing up  against  the  windward  side  of  the  skiff,  finally- 
filling  the  forward  section  of  the  latte*r  and  drifting 
right  on  over  to  congeal  my  cowering  anatomy.) 

The  thunder  did  not  come  into  action  battery  by 
battery  after  its  wonted  practice,  but  seemed 
to  open  up  all  of  a  sudden  with  a  crashing  barrage 
all  along  the  line.  Flashes  and  crashes  were  simul- 
taneous. The  light  of  the  jagged  bolts  broadened 
the  diameter  of  my  bowl  by  not  a  foot.  The  solid 
grey  walls  simply  glowed  and  dulled  like  a  ground- 
glass  bulb  when  its  light  is  switched  on  and  off.  Not 
one  clear-cut  flash  did  I  see  in  the  whole  bombard- 
ment. 

I  have  always  been  a  great  believer  in  whistling 
to  keep  up  ebbing  courage ;  not  necessarily  a  blowing 
of  air  through  pursed  lips,  but  any  easy  and  spon- 
taneous action  to  show  nonchalance  and  sang  froid 
in  the  face  of  danger.  The  particular  practice  which 
had  always  seemed  to  produce  the  best  results  was 
reciting  stirring  and  appropriate  poetry.  "Sparta- 
cus  to  the  Gladiators"  and  "Roll  on  thou  deep  and 
dark  blue  ocean,  roll!"  had  steadied  my  faltering 
nerve  in  many  crises.  On  this  occasion  it  was  when 
the  boat  broke  loose  from  its  moorings  and  started 
to  roll  over  upon  me  that  I  began  to  feel  the  need 
of  spiritual  stiffening.     I  must  have  picked  on  Kip- 


f 

264       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

ling  because  "The  Song  of  the  Red  War  Boat"  had 
been  running  in  my  head  for  a  day  or  two. 

^'Hearken,  Thor  of  the  Thunder!  (I  sputtered) 
We  are  not  here  for  a  jest." 

But  that  was  altogether  too  obvious.     I  broke  off 
and  began  again: 

"The  thunders  bellow  and  clamour 

The  harm  that  they  mean  to  do; 
There  goes  Thor'a  own  Hammer 

Cracking  the  night  in  two  I 
Close!     But  the  blow  has  missed  her.  ,  .  ." 

But  that  was  premature.  Far  from  missing  her, 
the  blow  had  at  last  got  a  shoulder  under  the  bottom 
of  my  poor  little  skiff  and  over  she  came !  By  Thor's 
grace  she  hung  there,  instead  of  going  on  rolling;  but 
those  fifteen  or  twenty  gallons  of  slightly  liquefied 
hail  seemed  to  drain  straight  from  the  base  of  the 
North  Pole.  I  tried  to  continue  registering  noncha- 
lance and  sang  froid,  but  accomplished  an  only  too 
literal  rendition  of  the  latter.  I  was  still  spitting 
sand  and  quavermg  ''There  goes  Thor's  own  Ham- 
mer^' when  the  walls  of  my  hail-hole  began  to  brighten 
and  recede — and  presently  it  was  a  warm,  soft  sum- 
mer afternoon  again.  That  three-mile-wide  Jugger- 
naut of  Primal  Chaos  was  rolling  away  straight 
across  those  verdant  irrigated  farms  of  the  Yellow- 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     265 

stone  Project  and  leaving  desolation  in  its  wake.  I 
only  hope  that  it  chastened  the  mendacious  ferry- 
man at  Riverview  and  made  a  sharp  right-angle  bend 
round  the  Pattei^son  farm  above  Savage. 

It  was  a  considerably  altered  world  that  met  the 
owl-like  bhnk  of  my  still  somewhat  sand-filled  eyes. 
The  big  red  barn  and  the  silo  still  loomed  against 
the  sky-line  above  the  bluff,  and  most  of  the  other 
houses  and  barns  were  still  standing*  All  of  the 
windmills  had  slipped  out  of  the  picture,  however, 
and  many  lesser  wooden  structures.  Trees  were 
broken:  off  or  uprooted  in  all  directions.  But  the 
strangest  effect  was  from  the  practical  disappearance 
of  the  thousands  of  acres  of  standing  crops — beaten 
into  the  earth  by  the  hail.  There,  I  knew,  lay  the 
real  tragedy  of  Thor's  little  field-day.  Quite  likely 
no  human  beings  had  been  killed — but  how  many 
human  hopes  ?  The  American  public  like  to  think  and 
talk  in  millions.  Very  well.  There  went  a  natural 
mill  that  was  grinding  up  corn  and  alfalfa  and  clover 
and  wheat  at  the  rate  of  a  million  dollar's  worth  a 
minute.  Who  said  the  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly? 
Much  as  I  was  longing  for  the  cheering  propinquity 
of  fellow  creatures  just  at  that  moment,  I  hated  the 
thought  of  intruding  upon  the  blank  despair  that  I 
knew  had  preceded  me  as  a  guest  in  the  farmhouse 
beyond  the  big  red  barn. 


260       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Laying  out  a  change  of  dry  clothes  from  one  of 
my  water-proof  bags,  I  stripped  off  my  wet  ones  and 
freshened  up  with  a  plunge  into  the  warm,  invigor- 
ating current  of  the  river.  Thanks  to  the  lightness 
and  simplicity  of  my  outfit,  salvage  operations  were 
easily  and  expeditiously,  effected.  The  skiff  had 
dumped  itself  in  blowing  over  and  was  ready  for 
launching  as  soon  as  it  was  tipped  back.  Most  of 
my  clothes  were  dry;  most  of  my  grub  wet.  The 
worst  loss  in  the  latter  was  the  sentimental  one  of 
the  residue  of  my  California  home-dried  apricots.  I 
didn't  care  much  for  the  darn  things  myself,  but  the 
people  along  the  river  had  proved  dead  keen  for  the 
succulent  amber  slabs.  Moreover,  it  had  always  lent 
a  pretty  touch  at  parting  to  hand  my  host  or  hostess 
something  produced  on  my  own  ranch,  with  perhaps 
a  few  words  about  how  it  had  been  picked,  pitted, 
sulphured,  dried  and  packed  by  Mexican  senoritas 
— all  young  and  dark-eyed  and  beautiful.  That  last 
had  been  especially  effective  in  lone  cow-camps. 
Yes,  I  was  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  give  the  last  of 
those  apricots  away  all  at  once  to  prevent  their  spoil- 
ing from  dampness.  I  resolved  to  buy  some  more  to 
replace  them — for  making  up  intimate  little  packets 
of  parting — at  the  first  opportunity. 

The  river  had  become  its  own  quiet  self  again 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     267 

within  a  few  moments,  and  I  pulled  through  a  slow 
current  to  the  foot  of  the  bluff  at  the  bend,  which 
appeared  to  be  the  only  place  one  could  land  and 
avoid  the  mud-flats.  The  long  sand-bar  on  which  I 
had  ridden  out  the  storm  had  been  scoured  almost 
beyond  recognition  by  the  blown  river  waters.  In 
a  dozen  places  channels  had  been  scoured  straight 
through  it  to  the  slough  behind,  and  the  latter,  greatly 
augmented  both  from  the  river  and  from  the  drain- 
age from  the  heights  above,  was  pouring  a  muddy 
torrent  back  into  the  mother  stream  at  the  bend.  I 
saw  that  I  was  luckier  than  I  had  at  first  appreciated 
in  not  having  had  the  bar  dissolve  beneath  my  feet. 
Fully  resolved,  if  no  alternative  cover  offered,  to 
tunnel  into  the  bluff  to  avoid  exposure  to  another 
of  Thor's  Juggernautic  joy-rides,  I  landed  on  a  jut- 
ting ledge  of  water-soaked  lignite  at  the  bend. 
Stacking  up  my  outfit,  I  clapped  the  skiff  down  upon 
it,  threw  a  few  lashings  over  the  whole,  and  climbed 
out  up  the  bluff.  With  the  fields  themselves  deep 
in  water  and  liquid  mud,  I  had  to  zigzag  cross-coun- 
try toward  the  nearest  house  by  following  the  em- 
bankments of  the  irrigating  ditches.  Not  a  blade 
of  grass  was  left  standing.  All  that  remained  of 
alfalfa,  oats  and  corn  was  a  tangled  green  mat  half 
covered  with  slowly  melting  hail-stones.     Half -grown 


268      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

corn  had  not  only  been  beaten  flat,  but  the  very  stalks 
were  crushed  and  shredded  as  if  pounded  by  ham- 
mers. 

There  was  only  one  cheering  thing  about  that 
whole  sodden  field  of  desolation — ^millions  on  millions 
of  mosquitos  had  been  battered  to  death  by  the  hail. 
Great  masses  of  them,  literally  pulped,  had  been 
strained  out  of  the  water  and  collected  against  heaps 
of  debris  in  the  ditches.  One  could  scoop  them  up 
by  the  double  handfuls.  How  often  had  I  bemoaned 
the  fact  that  every  mosquito  around  some  swampy 
Alaskan  or  Guinanan  camp  of  mine  had  not  a  single 
head  so  that  I  could  sever  it  with  one  fell  swoop  of 
and  ax  or  machete!  That  was  too  much  to  hope  for, 
of  course;  but  right  here  was  a  tolerably  fair  approach 
to  it.  I  squeezed  three  or  four  fistfuls  of  those 
pulped  tormentors  through  my  fingers  and  felt  ap- 
preciably less  depressed. 

Cut  off  by  a  deep-scoured  drainage  canal  from  a 
direct  approach  to  the  farm  of  the  big  red  barn,  I 
fared  back  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  a  road  and  a 
bridge.  Crossing  the  latter  and  wading  through 
deep  puddles,  I  came  upon  what  I  first  took  to  be 
a  deserted  ranch.  The  corrals  were  down,  the  barn 
partially  unroofed,  and  the  windowless  house  was  all 
but  stripped  of  its  shingles.  There  was  a  response 
to  my  knock,  however,  and  I  entered  a  half -wrecked 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     269 

kitchen  to  find  three  men  sitting  round  a  table.  A 
lamp  was  burning  on  a  wall-shelf,  but  its  flickering 
flame  barely  threw  a  glow  above  the  top  of  the 
opaquely  smoked  chimney. 

The  greeting  I  received  was  unconventional — 
even  slightly  disconcerting. 

"Are  you  broke?"  boomed  the  blunt  query  from 
a  big  chap  with  a  hammer,  evidently  just  through 
tacking  a  blanket  over  a  window.  His  two  com- 
panions took  pipes  from  their  mouths  and  hung  on 
my  answer  as  though  it  might  be  a  matter  of  con- 
siderable importance. 

"Not  at  all.  ..."  I  began,  intending  to  go  on  and 
assure  them  that,  far  from  being  the  hobo  I  looked, 
I  had  money  in  my  pocket  and  a  large  bag  of  Cali- 
fornia home-dried  apricots  to  give  away.  But  they 
waited  only  on  my  denial. 

"All  right.  Move  on!"  they  chorused  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  stagy  gestures.  "This  is  no  place 
for  a  man  that  ain't  broke.  We  are.  Went  broke 
half  an  hour  ago.  Hailed  outr  An  old  fellow  with 
whiskers  added  the  explanatory  trimmings. 

I  gulped  two  or  three  times  and  was  about  to  frame 
a  minimum  demand  for  an  hour  to  dry  my  wet  togs 
by  the  fire  when  the  big  chap  strode  over,  clapped  me 
jovially  on  the  shoulder  and  forced  me  into  a  chair 
by  the  table. 


270       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

*'Don't  mind  our  little  joke,  friend,"  he  said  with 
a  ringing  laugh.  "Whatever  there  is  left  in  this 
shack  in  the  way  of  comfort  is  at  your  disposal  for 
the  night,  or  as  long  as  you  want  to  stay.  Where 
did  the  storm  catch  you?  Car  stalled  on  the  road, 
I  suppose." 

"Boat — on  river — sand-bar,"  I  replied  between 
gulps  from  the  mug  of  steaming  black  coffee  the  big 
fellow  had  poured  me. 

The  three  of  them  exchanged  glances,  first  quiz- 
zical and  then  indicative  of  dawning  comprehension. 
Finally  they  threw  back  their  heads  and  guffawed 
louder  than  ever.  I  finished  my  coffee  and  gave 
them  time  to  finish  their  laugh.  Then  I  asked,  in  a 
slightly  hurt  tone  I  fear,  just  what  joke  they  saw 
in  being  caught  on  a  sand-bar  by  an  embryonic  cy- 
clone. Perhaps  if  they  had  been  there  them- 
selves. .  .  . 

That  set  them  off  again,  and  I  had  time  to  pour 
and  empty  another  mug  of  coffee  before  one  of  them 
was  sufficiently  recovered  to  reply.  The  old  boy 
with  whiskers  was  the  first  to  get  his  merriment  un- 
der leash,  and  so  it  was  he  who  explained:  "That 
wasn't  what  tickled  us;  we  was  only  laughin'  'cause 
youse  was  already  drowned  an'  had  a  gang  scoutin' 
for  your  dead  body." 

As  that  fell  well  within  the  compass  of  my  own 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  JUST  ABOVE   LIVINGSTON    (Ahove) 

THE  YELLOWSTONE  JUST  AFTER  RECEIVING  THE  BIG  HORN    (Below) 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    271 

sense  of  humour,  I  joined  the  mirth  party  too,  and 
the  four  of  us  laughed  all  together.  It  appeared 
that  a  gang  of  ditch-hands,  before  taking  to  cover, 
had  seen  a  man  pulling  down  stream  into  the  teeth 
of  the  advancing  .storm.  The  last  they  saw  of  him 
he  was  trying  to  climb  out  on  a  sand-bar.  The  waves 
were  all  around  him  and  he  appeared  to  be  at  his  last 
gasp.  When  the  storm  had  blown  by  and  they  looked 
again,  no  trace  remained  of  man  nor  boat.  That 
was  substantially  the  story  the  ditch-hands  told  in 
recruiting  a  posse  to  search  for  the  body.  If  they 
had  ventured  out  from  cover  lave  minutes  sooner  they 
would  have  seen  just  what  had  become  of  both  man 
and  boat,  instead  of  having  to  have  it  explained  to 
them  by  a  trio  of  hilarious  farmers  who  seemed  to 
feel  the  need  of  something  in  the  way  of  comic  re- 
lief to  take  the  edge  off  the  tragedy  of  being  "hailed 
out." 

The  big  chap's  name  was  Solberg.  He  was  of 
Norwegian  descent,  extremely  well  educated,  and  had 
spent  a  number  of  years  teaching  in  the  schools  of 
Minnesota.  I  was  only  too  glad  to  accept  his  invita- 
tion to  stay  over-night  and  dry  out,  especially  as  the 
weather  appeared  to  be  far  from  settled.  After  call- 
ing in  my  search-party,  I  returned  home  with  him 
and  we  spent  the  remaining  hours  of  daylight  board- 
ing up  windows,  patching  the  roof  and  rendering 


272       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

first-aid  generally  to  his  wounded  house.  The  plucky- 
fellow  was  far  from  being  crushed.  He  admitted 
that  his  crops  were  a  total  loss,  that  he  was  borrowed 
up  to  the  limit  with  the  bank,  and  that  he  didn't  even 
see  just  how  he  was  going  to  pay  any  of  his  debts. 
And  yet — if  he  could  only  get  hold  of  a  bunch  of 
sheep  to  fatten.  Sheep  were  more  in  his  line.  Per- 
haps, in  the  long  run,  he  would  be  all  the  better  off 
for  having  to  get  back  to  them.  Calling  over  his 
collie,  he  took  the  dog's  head  between  his  knees  and 
asked  him  what  he  thought  about  it.  The  intelH- 
gent  animal  eyed  his  master  seriously  for  a  few 
moments  and  then  wagged  his  tail  approvingly. 
"  'Shag'  thinks  it  will  be  best  to  go  back  to  sheep," 
pronounced  Solberg.  Then,  musingly.  "Yes,  I 
reckon  sheep's  the  answer." 

After  supper  Solberg  said  that  he  was  a  good  deal 
worried  about  his  neighbours  to  the  east — that  they 
were  harder  hit  than  any  one  else,  and  in  rather  worse 
shape  to  stand  it.     A  woman  and  kiddies  didn't  make 

it  any  easier  when  a  man  was  hailed  out.     X 

had  seemed  pretty  despondent  when  he  had  dropped 
in  just  after  the  storm.  Talked  rather  wildly.  Said 
he  was  through  for  good.     Solberg  hadn't  been  quite 

sure  whether  X had  just  meant  he  was  through 

with  farming,  or  something  else.     He  was  rather  a 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     273 

moody  chap  at  best.  .  .  .  Perhaps  no  harm  would 
be  done  if  we  took  a  turn  over  that  way.  ... 

The  "neighbour  to  the  east"  turned  out  to  be  the 
big  red  barn  and  silo  which,  during  the  storm,  had 
stood  to  me  as  the  symbols  of  all  that  remained  stable 
in  the  universe.  A  young  woman  opened  the  door 
of  the  staunch  little  farmhouse  to  us — a  girl  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms  and  a  couple  of  youngsters  fastened 
on  her  skirt.  Her  face  was  pretty — decidedly  so,  as 
I  saw  presently, — but  at  the  moment  I  noticed  that 
less  than  the  courage  it  expressed.  There  was  a  well 
of  tears  behind  her  fine  eyes,  but  I  knew  the  shedding 
of  them  was  going  to  be  postponed  indefinitely.  Sol- 
berg,  after  directing  a  questioning  look  round  the 
kitchen  and  sitting-room,  asked  bluntly  where  her 
husband  was.  With  a  nervous  glance  in  my  di- 
rection, she  replied  evasively  that  he  was  "outside 
walking  round,"  adding  that  she  had  milked  the  cows 
and  done  the  chores  herself.  With  a  keen  and  sym- 
pathetic glance  of  understanding,  my  friend  turned 
on  his  heel  and  vanished  into  the  darkness. 

Never  having  seen  any  one  hailed-out  before,  I 
was  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  know  just  what  form  my 
comforting  ought  to  take.  Finally,  doubtless  sub- 
consciously inspired  by  "The  Greatest  Mother  in  the 
World"  picture,  I  scooped  up  all  the  kiddies  in  sight 


274       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

and  started  to  dandle  them.  I  had  always  won  ap- 
proving nods  for  pulling  that  kind  of  a  stunt,  whether 
it  was  in  a  London  Zeppelin  raid  or  a  di^ive  of  Ar- 
menian refugees  at  Trebizond.  Even  here  it  was 
sound — theoretically  at  least — for  it  gave  the  mother 
a  chance  to  use  her  hands  and  apron  to  wipe  dishes. 
Where  it  miscarried  was  on  the  practical  side — the 
oldest  boy  would  keep  putting  his  hob-nailed  boot 
in  the  baby's  eye.  But  when  I  had  cached  the  baby 
in  its  crib  and  gagged  the  other  two  with  a  handful 
of  wet  dried  apricots,  instinct  came  to  my  rescue  and 
headed  me  oif  on  the  proper  tack — sympathy  stuff. 
That  is,  I  told  her  my  own  troubles  and  led  her  to 
forget  hers  in  sympathizing  with  them. 

Sincerely  and  unfeignedly  sorry  as  I  was  for  these 
people,  I  was  (momentarily)  almost  as  sorry  for 
myself  before  I  came  to  the  end  of  that  tale  of  woe. 
I  was  a  poor  farmer  from  California.  (Just  how 
poor,  and  in  how  many  senses  of  the  word,  I  didn't 
confess.)  Of  all  the  farmers  in  the  world,  none  had 
so  many  troubles  as  the  California  farmer.  Take 
oranges,  for  example.  If  the  buds  escaped  the  frost 
probably  the  tiny  green  fruit  would  succumb  to  the 
"June  Drop."  If  the  latter  was  weathered,  there 
were  the  black  scale,  the  brown  rot  and  the  red  spider 
lying  in  ambush,  complicated  by  the  probability  of 
water  shortage  at  the  end  of  the  summer.     If  the 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    275 

fruit  ran  that  gauntlet  and  came  to  maturity,  then 
there  lurked  the  worst  menace  of  all — the  January 
frosts.  And  finally,  if  the  ripe  fruit  survived  the 
frost  barrage  and  reached  the  packing-house,  it  was 
only  to  be  pushed  on  into  the  "No  Man's  Land"  of 
an  overstocked  market.  No  man  lived  with  so  many 
Damoclean  swords  suspended  over  him  as  the  Cali- 
fornia orange  grower — unless  it  was  the  California 
peach,  prune,  apricot,  grape,  nectarine  or  olive 
grower;  or  the  walnut  or  almond  grower;  or  the  al- 
falfa, barley  or  wheat  farmer ;  or  the  truck  gardener. 

I  had  been  all  of  these,  I  said,  and  was  just  about 
to  go  on  particularizing  on  the  diseases  and  dangers 
threatening  each  crop,  as  I  had  done  with  the  orange, 
when  the  rustle  of  a  skirt  caused  me  to  raise  my 
bowed  head.  There  she  was,  a  half-wiped  pie-tin 
still  in  the  bight  of  her  apron,  standing  over  me  and 
looking  down  with  tears  a  lot  nearer  to  brimming 
than  when  we  entered. 

"And  so  you  have  had  to  come  up  to  Montana 
looking  for  work?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  vibrant  with 
sympathy.  "What  a  shame  it  is  we're  all  hailed-out 
round  here,  with  no  work  in  sight,  and  nothing  to 
pay  for  it  with  if  there  was." 

Having  over-sailed  the  mark  by  a  mile,  I  hastened 
to  trim  in  canvas  and  beat  back  onto  the  course  as 
originally  charted.     The  last  year  or  two  in  Califor- 


276      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

nia  hadn't  been  so  bad,  I  admitted.  I  had  even  made 
quite  a  bit  of  money,  so  that  this  little  river  jaunt 
of  mine  on  the  Yellowstone  was  really  almost  in  the 
nature  of  a  pleasure  trip.  (Funny  thing,  but  that 
river-pleasure- jaunt  assertion  was  the  only  statement 
I  made  at  which  she  seemed  inclined  to  lift  an  eye- 
brow. )  I  had  brought  a  few  of  my  California  home- 
dried  apricots  along,  I  continued.  Perhaps  they 
would  enjoy  a  few  for  a  change.  That  was  the  point 
I  had  been  manoeuvring  to.  Now  I  would  play  my 
comforter  role. 

Spreading  the  last  of  my  bag  of  sticky  slabs  out 
before  the  fire,  I  started  to  tell  how  they  were  made. 
First  there  was  the  picking  by  men  and  the  cutting 
and  pitting  by  Mexican  girls.  She  interrupted  to 
ask  what  the  girls  were  paid.  I  told  her  about  fif- 
teen cents  a  box,  adding  that  some  of  the  defter  fin- 
gered of  them  often  made  three  and  four  dollars  a 
day.  She  sighed  at  that,  and  wished  she  had  a  chance 
to  earn  that  much — sure  and  safe  where  the  hail 
couldn't  get  it. 

Solberg  came  in  with  her  husband  at  this  junc- 
ture. He  was  a  good-looking  young  chap,  well  set 
up  and  with  the  right  kind  of  an  eye.  There  was  no 
doubt  of  the  depth  of  his  discouragement  and  de- 
pression, but  he  was  plainly  too  good  stuff  to  sulk 
for  long.     He  shook  hands  warmly  enough,  but  there 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     277 

was  a  trace  of  bitterness  in  the  smile  with  which  he 
remarked  that  he  was  glad  to  see  that  I  had  survived 
the  hail  better  than  had  his  oats  and  corn.  I  rattled 
right  on  about  the  apricots,  telling  of  the  sulphur- 
ing, sunning,  stacking,  binning  and  packing,  adding 
— in  a  convenient  moment  when  the  wife  had  stepped 
out  to  shake  the  tablecloth — that  ever  effective  little 
capsule  about  the  Mexican  senoritas,  all  young,  dark- 
eyed  and  beautiful.  The  good  chap  actually  lifted 
his  head  and  took  a  deep,  shoulder-squaring  breath 
at  that.  He  relapsed  again  when  I  failed  to  develop 
the  theme,  but  it  was  only  temporary.  Ten  minutes 
later,  with  great  inconsequentiality,  I  heard  him  ask- 
ing his  wife  how  she  would  like  to  go  to  California 
and  work  in  the  apricots.  Then  he  went  over,  wound 
up  the  Victrola  and  put  on  ''Smiles!  Smiles!  Smiles!" 
What  a  lot  of  latent  good  there  was  in  those  Cali- 
fornia home-dried  apricots,  I  reflected  as  we  splashed 
along  homeward!  Surely  I  must  not  fail  to  renew 
my  supply  at  the  next  town. 

As  we  were  preparing  to  turn  in  for  the  night,  I 
took  Solberg  to  task  for  his  remark  earlier  in  the 
evening  to  the  effect  that  a  woman  and  kiddies  didn't 
make  it  any  easier  for  a  man  who  had  been  hailed- 
out.  "Don't  you  think,"  I  asked,  "that  a  plucky  lit- 
tle woman  like  that  comes  in  pretty  handy  to  buffer 
the  bumps  in  a  time  of  trouble  like  this?"     For  the 


278       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

first  and  only  time  my  host  was  guilty  of  sarcasm. 
"Well,"  he  said  with  a  cynical  glint  in  his  blue  eye, 
*'if  I  had  been  in  your  place  down  there  on  the  sand- 
bar I  daresay  I  would  have  been  glad  of  almost  any- 
thing to  buffer  the  bumps  of  the  hail-stones.  As 
it  is,  I  reckon  I  can  do  my  own  buffering." 

Recognizing  the  familiar  symptoms  of  an  ancient 
but  still  unhealed  wound,  I  thought  the  best  thing 
I  could  do  under  the  circumstances  was  to  concen- 
trate on  blowing  up  my  sleeping-bag  and  turning 
in.  Funny  how  imagination  works  in  a  man  who  is 
much  alone.  Given  a  pin-prick  over  the  heart,  with 
ten  years  of  solitude  to  brood  over  it,  and  he'll  con- 
vince himself  that  the  original  wound  was  from  noth- 
ing of  less  calibre  than  a  "Big  Bertha." 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  clear,  with  no 
signs  of  any  menace  lurking  under  the  northeastern 
horizon.  Solberg  accompanied  me  across  his  ruined 
fields  to  my  boat.  His  corn  and  oats,  he  admitted, 
were  a  total  loss,  but  he  thought  there  were  signs  that 
the  tough,  stringy  stalks  of  the  sweet  clover  had  some 
vitality  left  in  them.  He  seemed  especially  attached 
to  this  beautiful  plant,  calling  it  "The  Friend  of 
Man"  and  saying  that  he  had  experimented  with  sev- 
eral foods  and  drinks  from  it  that  promised  well  for 
human  consumption.     There  was  something  partic- 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI    279 

ulary  appealing  to  me  in  this  fine,  and  bluff,  if  slightly 
eccentric,  chap.  I  think  it  was  his  wholesomeness — 
the  firmness  with  which  he  seemed  to  have  his  feet 
planted  on  the  earth.  One  who  has  been  attracted 
to  the  French  peasant  for  his  love  of  the  land  from 
which  he  draws  his  life  will  know  what  I  mean. 

I  pushed  off  into  a  quiet  current  that  was  in  strange 
contrast  to  the  wind-torn  welter  of  white  I  had  seen 
at  that  bend  the  evening  before.  The  air  on  the  river 
was  fairly  drenched  with  the  heavy  odour  of  crushed 
vegetation,  which  seemed  to  have  drained  there  from 
higher  levels.  This  was  pronounced  at  all  times,  but 
where  I  skirted  fields  of  sweet  clover  there  was  a  pal- 
pability to  the  perfume  which  suggested  that  one 
might  almost  gather  it  in  his  hands  and  allow  it  to 
pour  through  his  fingers.  In  the  Marquesas  there 
is  a  little  yellow-blossomed  bush  called  the  cassi,  the 
pollen  from  which  blows  far  to  leeward  before  the 
South-east  Trade.  At  times  I  have  thought  that  I 
could  detect  the  delicate  odour  of  hlown-cassi  ten 
miles  at  sea,  yet  never  even  in  kicking  my  way 
through  a  copse  of  the  fragrant  little  bush  have  I  been 
assailed  with  such  a  veritable  flow  of  perfume  as 
coiled  and  streamed  about  me  as  I  drifted  down 
toward  the  mouth  of  the  Yellowstone  that  morning 
after  the  great  hail-storm.     Doubtless,  indeed,  the 


280      DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

hail  was  responsible.  Crushed  and  dying,  the  voice- 
less "Friend  of  Man"  was  chanting  its  "Swan  Song" 
in  the  only  medium  at  its  command. 

A  couple  of  miles  below  the  bend  where  the  storm 
had  caught  me  I  passed  into  North  Dakota  at  a  point 
called  the  State  Line  Ferry.  An  hour  later  I  ran 
under  the  bridge  of  a  branch  of  the  Great  Northern. 
It  was  a  fine,  bold  piece  of  construction,  and  it  was 
in  my  mind  at  the  time  that  its  builder  must  be  an 
outstanding  man  in  his  line.  This  surmise  was  vin- 
dicated a  month  later  when  I  found  him  putting  in 
the  first  piers  of  a  bridge  to  span  the  Missouri  at 
Yankton.  Incidentally,  some  of  his  false-work  got 
in  the  way  of  my  skiff  and  all  but  dumped  me  out 
into  the  "Big  Muddy." 

Below  Forsyth's  Butte,  last  of  the  outstanding 
landmarks  of  the  Yellowstone,  the  country  on  both 
sides  began  to  smoothen  and  flatten  out  and  offer 
less  resistance  to  the  spread  of  the  river.  The  broad 
overflow  flats  offered  an  ideal  breeding  ground  for 
mosquitos,  recalling  to  me  that  a  very  large  portion 
of  Clark's  journey  of  early  August  was  devoted  to 
telling  of  the  mental  and  physical  suffering  inflicted 
upon  the  members  of  his  party  by  the  swarms  of 
stinging  pests  they  had  encountered  just  above  and 
below  the  mouth  of  the  Yellowstone.  From  Clark's 
time  down  to  the  present  this  particular  region  has 


I 


^MTU^/K 


I 


liiiiiiilliiMA 


THE    BROAD   STREAM   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE    BELOW   GLENDIVE    (AboVe) 

THE  LAST  BRIDGE  ABOVE  THE  MISSOURI   (Center) 

WHERE  THE  YELLOWSTONE  TAKES  POSSESSION  OF  THE  MISSOURI  (Below) 


GLENDIVE  TO  THE  MISSOURI     281 

always  been  regarded  as  "The  Dark  and  Bloody- 
Ground  of  the  Mosquito  Coast  of  Dakota."  I  was 
resolved  to  put  bars  between  myself  and  the  enemy 
that  night — if  not  the  mosquito  bars  of  a  hotel  room, 
then  the  mid-stream  sand-bars  of  the  Missouri. 

A  broad,  sweeping  curve  to  the  left,  a  wide  bend, 
and  then  an  equally  broad  and  sweeping  curve  to  the 
right  opened  up  a  long  vista  with  low,  dry,  rounded 
hills  at  the  end  of  it.  With  a  quick  catch  of  breath 
I  recognized  the  telegraph  poles  of  the  Great  North- 
ern Railway  and  the  scattering  buildings  of  Fort 
Buford — both  beyond  the  Missouri,  A  swift  run 
under  a  crumbling  cut-bank  on  the  left  carried  me 
past  an  out-reaching  tongue  of  yellow  clay  and  into 
a  quiet,  sluggish,  dark-stained  current  that  came 
meandering  along  from  the  west. 

I  have  mentioned  the  quieter,  calmer  current  in 
which  I  had  been  drifting  below  Glendive.  So  it  had 
seemed  after  the  tumultuous  mountain  torrent  which 
I  had  run  from  Livingston  to  Billings;  yet  in  com- 
parison with  this  decorous  bride  from  the  west  the 
Yellowstone  came  to  its  marriage  bed  like  a  raging 
lion.  Or,  to  borrow  an  animal  from  the  next  cage 
in  the  zoo,  the  Missouri,  in  coming  down  to  meet  and 
mingle  with  the  Yellowstone,  fared  much  like  the 
lady  who  went  out  to  ride  on  the  tiger.  If  I  may 
paraphrase: 


282       DOWN  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

"I  finished  my  ride  with  the  Lady  inside. 
And  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  Tiger," 

meaning  the  Yellowstone.  Without  even  pausing  to 
crouch  for  a  spring,  the  tawny,  impetuous  feline  on 
whose  back  I  had  ridden  all  the  way  down  from  the 
Rockies,  simply  rushed  out  upon  the  muddy  lamb 
from  the  western  plains  and  gobbled  it  up.  Seven 
or  eight  weeks  later  I  saw  the  latter  do  the  same  thing 
to  the  Mississippi — crowd  it  right  over  against  the 
Illinois  shore  and  gulp  it  down.  And  along  toward 
the  end  of  October  I  remember  thinking  how  like 
the  blonde  beast  of  the  Yellowstone  was  a  ropy  coil 
of  tawny  current  I  found  undermining  a  levee  in 
Louisiana.  According  to  the  maps  I  had  been  travel- 
ling for  upwards  of  three  thousand  miles  on  the  Mis- 
souri and  Mississippi,  but  in  fancy  it  was  the  tawny 
tiger  of  the  Yellowstone  that  had  carried  me  all  the 
way  from  the  borders  of  Wyoming  to  the  tide-waters 
of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 


THE  END 


"^^^Wr-g;?^ 


^<'^'^*> 


•T^"^:' 


IW 


THTR  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 

STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF    25    CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 

THIS   BOOK  ON   THE  DATE  DUE.     THE  PENALTY 

WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 

DAY    AND    TO    $1.00    ON    THE    SEVENTH     DAY 

OVERDUE. 

FEB  18193 

3 

M,H- 

APR  36  1944 

I7Jan'62lQ.f 

|\PR2  7  19T6 

1            ^ 

<                        III 

q           ifi 

a     '"     J 

<      e-      5 

a     CM    u 

S     IK     a. 

^     ^     o 

z          z 

3 

LD  21-50w-l,'33 

YC  28213 


500380 


^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


1    \>lf 


